Kenny Bishop's blog - on the couch...

hi, god

2011-04-11T06:00:00.002-04:00

Hi, God.

I should probably apologize and ask forgiveness before I do anything else. I’ve not noticed you like I should. I’m sorry. I’ve probably missed the point of a million pretty things and a thousand precious moments along the way. And I’m quite confident I’ve enjoyed a lot of goodies at your bidding without even considering how kind you are. I really am sorry – and thanks.

I wonder sometimes what kind of an influence I am. I wonder what my coworkers and my friends and especially my kids and the others I love think about you because of me. As much as I want to represent and mimic you and your approach to things, I think I do it wrong a lot. I probably owe them all an apology for being such a mishmashed example sometimes, and one to you for misrepresenting your heart. Saying out loud that I’m a Christian probably carries a whole lot more responsibility than I’ve been giving it.

I've been meaning to thank you for the cheaper car insurance. Better coverage too! Thanks!!

I’ve been a bad Republican. I don’t know if that requires a confession or not. But I mention it just in case. I’m having trouble figuring out the wealthy/needy equation. People with lots and people with little living so close to each other… I get mixed up on whose side Jesus is on. I do think though that some of your people are kinda getting distracted - making hay for horses that ain’t hungry. Not that I'd be a better Democrat. I don’t know for sure what a Tea Partier is. I'll beg your indulgence on that one.

I felt really bad the other day at church. The guy sitting about three seats down was bouncing his leg like a pogo stick. I think he was nervous. But the whole row shook and it got on my nerves. I could’a been a better worshipper, but I was being jostled. No doubt, the sermon was spot on, but I was distracted. I probably shouldn’t have, but I stared at him till he stopped – for a while. I think I made him more uncomfortable. I hope he comes back this Sunday. I'll do better. Nudge him if you will.

I said the word fool back on April first. Mom always said we shouldn’t. Wanted you to know.

Speaking of bad words, I cursed the gas prices this week. Well, it really wasn’t a curse word. But it was one I wouldn’t want Mom to hear passing my lips. I don’t know what the point was anyway. It’s not like numbers have souls. I certainly didn’t mean it as a curse on the people who rob, er’ decide what we pay. I don’t want anyone to go to hell. I don’t think anyone heard me, but when the pump stopped and the total jumped out on me like that chainsaw guy at the end of the haunted forest, I just blurted it out. I really am sorry.

I’ve had a lot of meals lately without thanking you for the bounty. So I thank you now with incredible and sincere appreciation.

I plan to wake up tomorrow. Thanks in advance for the fun, and my apologies for the mess.

god or not

2011-04-04T06:00:00.010-04:00

"I prefer to help people of my own accord following God's individual direction rather than forced charity through the government. Those who invoke religious motives when attempting to justify the immoral redsitrabution [sic] of wealth are using the lazyiest [sic] possible argument [sic]"

I found this quote the other day on Leland's Facebook page. It was his response to a liberal friend who was trying to appeal to his religious convictions. One of them was talking, I think, about God's charity; the other about God's government.

I've been debating in my own head these same conflicting and frustrating arguments for a while now. I’ve moved a great deal from where I was, but I'm still not solidly settled on a position. There are reasons that I agree and disagree with Leland.

I can't not admit that I'm a hypocrite when it comes to personal denial. I've enjoyed nice vacations knowing there is a kid somewhere who could make a year's worth of necessities out of my week of extravagance. A mom who works the hard soil with bare feet would wince at my shoe stash. A lot of nice coats hang in my warm closet on cold, cold nights.

I've earned most of what I have. In the morning, when the alarm goes off, I get out of bed, feeling it or not, and get myself to the place that pays me to be productive. I work for my stuff, and I feel I deserve my stuff. But I also feel compelled to give as generously as I can to help meet the needs of others. I think that's the point my friend Leland was making, and it makes great sense.

There seems to be something missing though in Leland’s spirit. I absolutely do not question his commitment or relationship with God. I don’t qualify to even sit on that jury. I want to ask though, in the Scripture, which was more evidently important to Jesus Christ, caring for the poor and making sure that the hungry get to eat even a little, or protecting the wealthy and ensuring that they always have more than enough? Where did Jesus stand on political power? What was his position on keeping the government under control or in the control of the right people? Jesus Christ didn’t seem too interested in patriotic motivation or conditional compassion.

There is also the issue of the long range premise of Leland’s words. There are lots of very conservative Christians in the United States who are working incredibly hard to make sure that their idea of the teachings of the Holy Bible is the law of the land. Lawmakers who promote “family values” admit they are influenced by Judeo-Christian ideas. But if religion is no good reason for a government to be morally compassionate, then is religion a good reason for a government to be morally judicious?

"I prefer to live my life of my own accord, following God's individual direction, rather than forced morality through the government. Those who invoke religious motives when attempting to legislate moral 'family values' are using the laziest possible argument."

sacrificial couch

2011-03-27T22:00:00.004-04:00

There's a burning couch in the middle of Euclid Avenue. That either means they couldn't find the cigarette, or the University of Kentucky basketball team did something incredibly big.

Our team is now one of only four still in the running for a national, big tourney title. Two more wins and the Wildcats will be the only Div. I team this year able to brag about winning their very last game. Nearly every kid studying at UK right now was in the single digit years of their life the last time that happened. So if anything is worthy of a good, old-fashioned, public couch burnin', this probably is.

Basketball is a near religious experience in Kentucky. During the season, wins (gratefulness) and losses (faith) make for perfect sermons. God is UK. Satan is the versus. Visiting evangelists are made aware. Church services are subject to game times from October to April. Like the crusaders, we conquer and rename cities, e.g. Catlanta, Big Blue Newark Nation, Blue Jersey, and whatever Houston ends up falling to. Restaurants are louder when we're winning. The people smile more. Benevolence increases. Jesus is thanked. And evidently, when we win the big, big games, we sacrifice furniture.

I try to be a live-and-let-live kinda guy, so I didn't give the flaming furniture a lot of scrutiny. If I'd been the parent who paid for it I might have, but otherwise I didn't think much about it. Except to wonder how the conversation went that led up to the moment of combustion.

TV Announcer Jim Nantz: "And that will do it. The Wildcats, going back to an old Kentucky home, the Final Four!

College student #1: "Yes! Yes!! YES BABY!!! We're going to Houston, baby!! Woo hoo!!! Oh my gosh!! Can you believe it?! We're going to the Final Four! We're going to Houstoooonnnn!!!"

Chest bump. High five. Chest bump. Tight hug. Awkward stare. Chest bump.

College student #2: "Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! We gotta celebrate, man! We gotta par-tay!!"

College student #1: "Oh my gosh, man! Everybody's going to the street! We gotta go!"

College student #2: "This is crazy, man! We-are-gon-na-par-tay!!"

College student #1: "Hey, man! Let's do something off the hook! Get the other end."

College student #2: "What?"

College student #1: "Get the other end, man!"

College student #2: "Why?"

College student #1: "We're gonna burn it, man! Woo hoo!!"

College student #2: "What?

College student #1: "Seriously, dude. Get the other end."

College student #2: "Dude. You sure? This is Kendall's couch."

College student #1: "Kendall shoulda been here to protect it."

College student #2: "Woo hoo!! We're going to Houston, man! We're gonna par-tay!!"

Local news announcer: "Worshippers took to the streets in Lexington tonight, celebrating the Kentucky Wildcats' first NCAA Final Four appearance in thirteen years. A couch was burned in honor of the occasion. No word yet on whether it was a virgin."

for japan...

2011-03-13T18:00:00.001-04:00

“The splendor of a King, clothed in majesty; Let all the earth rejoice, all the earth rejoice. He wraps himself in light, and darkness tries to hide. It trembles at his voice, trembles at his voice.”

These were some of the lyrics that called us to worship this past Sunday morning. We sang it, but it didn't mean much to me. I mouthed, “How great is our God! Sing with me, how great is our God! And all will see how great, how great is our God!” I wondered if I could convince a dazed and devastated Japanese to sing such a thing right now.

It was too easy - singing about the earth rejoicing and trembling and all. Is that what it was doing last Friday when it shook and rolled and killed tens of thousands of my fellow humans in and around Sendai? It was no trouble at all to turn to my pew buddies and share the Peace of Christ knowing that the calamity and turmoil in the headlines is 7,338 miles that way. In my safe place, where the air and water is clean and a meal within the hour is not if, but what, I had a hard time not feeling guilty.

I don’t think I personally know anyone who so much as lost a light bulb in Japan. Still, I wince and get a knot in my belly when I see cars and boats and all the deeply personal and sentimental pieces of people’s lives scattered among the splinters that used to be houses, and know that rodents will find some of those bodies before the recoverers do. I’ve cried or wept or sighed every single time I’ve seen a picture or a video or heard an interview – all from strangers, but still very moving.

When I was a kid I once had a Sunday school teacher who told the class that we should never question why God does what He does. I always wondered why God let drunk drivers and drug dealers and robbers do bad things and keep on living. I thought that was her point. For some reason, it didn’t occur to me then that God did earthquakes and tornadoes and blizzards and stuff. Then I got older and learned that attorneys and insurance companies (and show promoters) hold God accountable for destruction beyond man’s control.

Maybe if all the bad people in the world lived where the tsunami hit, I’d feel bad but not so bad. At least it would all seem more reasonable and give God a better image (at least among the conservatives). At least I’d feel like the evil-doers got their comeuppance – and the good, hard working, honest people were spared. But that didn’t happen.

In spite of my Sunday school teacher’s warnings, I question God about a lot of things. Sometimes it’s about the curious, like why the circle of life needs chiggers. Sometimes I ask Him why He doesn’t stop the selfish, mean people in their greed and violence. I often question His apparent lack of interest when kids and innocent people get sick and don’t survive. I always wonder why He’d let His nature, HIS nature, do angry deeds.

In Japan, when the planet stopped shaking and the ocean flowed back, the overwhelming majority of us looked on at the ugly mess from far away. A lot of us prayed, but found our meditations sprinkled with little fits of futility. Probably because we’re Christians with no answers, and that’s hard. The only thing left is for us to believe as best we can for those who can’t. So for the beautiful, precious, incredible people of Japan I sing, even in my misgivings, in honor of you.

“And age to age He stands. And time is in His hands. Beginning and the end. Beginning and the End. The Godhead, three in one. Father, Spirit, Son. The Lion and the Lamb. The Lion and the Lamb”.

Very pretty words and music by Chris Tomlin.

perfectly good trash

2011-01-29T06:00:00.006-05:00

I use forks and spoons cause I can't throw my hands in the dishwasher and go to bed. It's likely though that nothing in my ol' Kentucky kitchen's utensil drawer is fit to land an appearance at the big William and Kate event coming up. As flatware goes, it's nice and all, but it ain't even distant kin to real silverware, and it's certainly not fit for royal occasions.

A couple of years ago I went through a little plastic ware phase - mostly because I was lazy. But I justified using and tossing a few dozen Dixie pieces cause it saved local H20and stopped the drought in East Africa. Actually, neither is hardly true. And as it turned out, it was a dumb idea.

In the meantime, I got myself some nice, fancy looking plastic spoons and forks and knives for when company came for dinner. They were pretty cool - if you didn't get too close - and if you didn't pick them up - and if your meat wasn't too tough. The pieces was coated with a really shiny silver. But this was quite obviously not real silverware. It was plastic. And every one of my friends who used it knew it was plastic. You can pay a little more for the silver version, but still all you've got is plastic.

While the reusable stuff sat ready and clean but unused, I was eating with the throw-away stuff, using it once, and, well, throwing it away. It never occurred to me that that didn't mean it was broken; that it could still feed me; that I could use it again. It may have been unconventional, but it wasn't like it was against the law or unbiblical to clean the spoon and use it again - just like new. The label told me it was disposable and useless once it got dirty. So I threw away lots of used spoons because that's what we do with used, plastic spoons.

After a while I started associating again with better spoons. In the end it was actually more economical. And I got tired, even weary of throwing away perfectly good trash.

political justification

2011-01-22T06:00:00.004-05:00

Zac is a boy with a dog named Baxter.

Baxter and Zac are close to each other.

Zac takes a step and Baxter does too.

Baxter is Zac's closest dog.

Zac is Baxter's closest human.

Baxter and Zac love to play games.

Zac and Baxter sometimes play hard.

Baxter forgets and sometimes bites Zac.

Zac must teach Baxter and bites Baxter back.

Baxter now thinks it's his turn to bite Zac.

matt didn't mean no harm

2011-01-15T06:00:00.009-05:00

Matt Paul used to own Sunday night radio in Richmond, Kentucky. If you liked bluegrass music, and I did (do), his show on WCBR was the one to know and never miss. He knew the singers, the pickers, the promoters, the writers, the history and the gossip in the acoustic git-box music world. He had his own local band, he was funny and as far as I knew, he was a great guy.

Matt played "secular" songs early in the show. Then about 8 o'clock or so he'd start slipping "sacred" songs into the rotation. That's when the good-living, God-fearing folks who just got out of church started tuning in. By 8:30, all the drinking, loving and cheating songs were done. It was all about Jesus, Heaven and dying till 10 o'clock. On Sunday, in Central and Eastern Kentucky, just 'cause church was over didn't mean it wasn't still the Lord's day.

Matt did most of his commercials live. His sponsors preferred it. He'd have a note in front of him so he could know what was on sale, but usually he just went with the top of his head. Every spot ended with, "and you be sure now to tell 'em Matt sentcha."

Every once in a while Matt would accidentally offend the sensitive spirits with something PG. He knew who his audience was, so I can't imagine he did it on purpose. But when pretty much everything short of a King James version of the Beatitudes with an old Red-Back Hymnal chaser is a sure sign of slipping, or as our tradition calls it, back-sliding, it's hard not to transgress with an unintentional piece of clever radio every now and then.

"Hardy Brother's over in Irvine is having a whale of a sale!"

Everybody in Irvine knew where the Hardy Brother's Market was. The "Y" is where the three big roads came together. It's also where the brothers kept shop. They sold batteries, lard, seed corn, hard candy, salt blocks, bibbed overalls, pork chops, work socks, butter, Mt. Dew, roastin' ears, chewing tobacco, hair spray and dog food. Pretty much anything a small river town dweller or a farmer would need was somewhere in there, including what had to be the widest selection of pickled stuff this side of the Mississippi.

"Run over to the "Y" in Irvine and say hi to Ray and Pepper Hardy," Matt said one night around 9 o'clock. "The Hardy Brothers are having one whale of a sale." Well that was pushing it. Everybody knew that "whale" was a safe word for something else. And the good church folks who heard it were sure he probably used the real word earlier in the show while they were worshipping and he was playing honky-tonk songs.

"Well folks, it's about springtime! And that means it's time to get the cabbage in the ground. Ray and Pepper over at the Hardy Brother's Market have what you need to get your garden going and growing. While you're there, have Maimee back in the kitchen fix ya one of her famous chuck wagon spreads. And oh yeah, since the weather's gettin' warm, the brothers are putting all their long johns on sale. So run on over and take a look while Pepper's underwear is half off. And you be sure now to tell 'em Matt sentcha."

According the reverend, "He probably didn't mean no harm, but Matt's going to hell."

what did i pray?

2011-01-08T06:00:00.000-05:00

I tried to pray while I was driving in to the office this morning, but that blasted driver smiling in my mirror was intent on making our cute little rides the newest Kia couple in town. We were certainly close enough to mate out our own little Spectra. Yesterday it was the hay wagon in front of me that robbed Jesus from my mind. Sometimes God has a hard time keeping my attention.

When I was a kid our family attended a lot of small, independent Baptist and Pentecostal churches. They were usually out in the country, usually way out, and the people there usually worshipped with a lot of loud. They also usually moved a lot when they felt the Spirit, which meant they usually got hot and sweaty. The little buildings usually didn’t have air conditioning, so they’d usually raise the windows and expect God to bless them with a breeze. He usually did.

Along with the air, it wasn’t uncommon for an insect critter or two to find a place in the place. Not thinking like a bug (but willing to try), I’m not sure what the arthropods thought they were buzzing into. But watching them flit and flutter for dear life among what had to look like human pandemonium was a sweet treat for us kids. With a house full of jumpers and spinners and fainters and jerkers in full-on worship, you’d think there was plenty to entertain the young set already. But bring in a fly or a moth, or especially a bee or a wasp, and spectacular things can happen among the saints.

God is big. Huge even. But as large as He is, a thing with wings and a stinger can sap His spirit right out of the most holy place. Let one distracted parishioner take their eyes off Heaven and spot a hornet and God is done for the night – or at least until one of His most faithful declares it an attack from the devil and breaks the sixth commandment on the innocent little guy. Eternal death for one of God’s tiny creations is justified when it momentarily distracts us from Him. (Crying church babies excluded.)

This is when the preacher seizes the opportunity, says God gave him a revelation, and warns us not to open the windows of our souls, even when the inside is hot and uncomfortable, lest the devil (a bug) comes in to distract us.

It’s still hot in the church though, so no one closes the window.

I have set-aside time when I remove the distractions and concentrate on prayer. But I talk to God all the time. I drive and talk, listen to the radio and talk, read and talk, eat and talk, sing and talk, take a shower and talk, watch TV and talk, workout and talk, run and talk, walk and talk. I talk – and I listen. But it’s usually in spurts. Sometimes I have to ask God what I was talking about before I got distracted. I tell Him I’m sorry for wondering off, and apologize if I’m about to say something I’ve already said. I imagine He rolls His eyes; we both smile and resume the visit.

one thousand, 10

2011-01-01T06:00:00.010-05:00

My warm-weather average is probably at least four cups of coffee a day. And by cup I mean mega-mug. (The official size of a cup of coffee is around 4 oz. Who ever?!) I never, ever miss a day, and the colder the day the morer the java. I'm guestimating that I sipped down more than 1,500 "servings" of mmm hot caffeinated deliciousness last year. Probably more. I likely did more coffee last year than I did meaningful prayer. Sorry, God and Mormons and Adventists and old-time Nazarenes and whoever else thinks caffeine should be sold in liquor stores.

According to the calendar on the ol' iPhone, I got my hair cut eleven times in 2010 and my teeth cleaned twice. I was scheduled to see the doctor three times, but cancelled once because I wasn't supposed to eat, forgot, woke up and had a biscuit.

Last year I shared songs on stages and platforms in Kentucky, Indiana, Illinois, West Virginia, Tennessee, California, Georgia, Florida, Ohio, Missouri, Oklahoma, Colorado, Texas, Arkansas, Michigan, Virginia and North Carolina. (The acoustics in the little trailer terminal at the Salt Lake City Airport were pretty fun, so I hummed a little in Utah. I'm not counting that one as official though cause it was unadvertised.)

The state capitol building in Kentucky hit the big 1-0-0 back in the summer. The governor officially invited me to officially sing the official state song at the big official b'day party in the official rotunda where bad notes linger and you can harmonize with yourself if you do it quickly. That was a historic, official treat for me.

One of my fave days every year is the one I spend with the thousands of breast cancer survivors who come out to the Celebration of Hope. Kentucky First Lady Jane Beshear asked me to host the show again, and I think I said yes before she said would you... Fran Drescher and UK coach John Calipari talked too. I forget what they said.

Tony Greene left us. That was hard. It's still hard.

I sang a handful of jingles, put some BGVs on a few records, did voice-overs for two or three TV commercials, and had a couple of writing sessions with some incredibly humble but still intimidating song-crafter-artists in 2010.

I got to lead-sing on a classic gospel song with one of the classic performers who actually made it a classic gospel song. Then I got to harmony-sing with one of the the coolest, funnest, most tuned-in-to-God groups around. All of that in a matter of hours. Way cool!

I spent a couple of days recording Gaither Homecoming videos. As always, it was like a family reunion where you're content to wave across the room to some and can't wait to catch up with others and load up on hugs and stories knowing you won't again until the next reunion - or funeral. Bill always feeds us good. We laugh a lot and cry almost as much.

I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show in a movie theater for the very first time - rice, newspapers, flashlights, confetti, toilet paper, toast, cards, hot dogs and all. They confiscated our water pistols at the door.

The Fourth of July fireworks look different from the middle of downtown Lexington where buildings used to be but an open pasture with a pretty fence is now. I learned that the big Halloween zombie walk down Main Street really is big.

I "accidentally" dropped my iPhone 3G repeatedly until it broke. The new iPhone 4 is really neat.

Zac gave me a new smarter-than-I-am camera for my !#th birthday for which I'd have to switch majors to figure out. I gave him a bicycle for his, but returned it and got him another one cause his feet couldn't touch the ground, but returned it too cause although it was shorter and he's an adult, his feet still couldn't touch the ground. It's all good. Kid's bikes don't cost as much.

I flew away to Ft. Lauderdale, New York, Miami, Denver. St. Louis, Chicago, SoCal and Pittsburgh for a few days. Mortgages, car payments, and a vanishing dog sitter forced me to eventually fly back.

After nearly 15 years of dedicated soccer grunt-n-grind, Christian did his senior year thing on the field for the last time back in the fall, making his dad sinfully proud. Even though their last game went down ugly, it was my son who scored his team's only post-season goal. My one man victory lap would've been louder if some bound up parent hadn't swiped my vuvuzela. I was sad when it was over. My little boy is really a man.

Casie is all girl - all very pretty girl. I always thought I'd spend a good part of my daddy years judging, deeming unfit and turning wannabe boyfriends one after another away from her before she even knew they were interested. I knew of no living male who met the well justified qualifications. Still don't. But it looks like she's doing an admirable job, policing things very well. Good girl.

My sweet friend Ty got married and grand-opened her own business called Twirl Boutique. If a guy ever measures up, Casie will wedding shop there.

Since our extra, extra, extra, extra long lunch was perpetually tying up one of their Saturday afternoon tables, the fine chefs at 6 Friends Cafe in Lexington decided they might as well make good use of our hijacking. So me and my friends Amy and Renee got to taste test some deserts and name the best one after Nay Nay and John's new handsome and always smiling baby boy. The "Candy Case" crepe is delicious of course, and forever belongs to him. You're welcome, Lexington.

Right before Christmas, cute-as-a-button baby Zak introduced himself to Mom and Dad as Bishop grandchild #10, via my youngest brother, Chris. His adorability reminds everyone of his uncle Kenny.

The Spoon Bread Festival made history back in the summer when they discovered their most gorgeous little gem ever. Abby, the so far one and only Bishop great-grand was crowned Tiny Miss and then strutted her hot little stuff on the runway at state where bribery is the only possible explanation for her not coming home with a tiera, title and world tour.

Two of the best friends I've ever had in the whole of the world moved away, and I cried for a while. But now Anthony and Greg are settled in Ft. Lauderdale where I've already started my quest to hang in their extra bedroom way past the awkward stage.

In July I played producer for a big Kentucky Lady Legends show on a big stage on the river in Louisville. The weather worked pretty while Patty Loveless, Loretta Lynn and Wynonna Judd turned the crowd into puppets. In the end it was like Thanksgiving. All that work for a two hour meal.

Just before the ladies, I pulled executive producer duties for a one-man play called, "The Kingfish" at Louisville's Actors Theatre. Don't know if I'm more in love with the play or the theatre.

I've recently been treated to a reconnection with an old friend from long ago. Tim makes me feel wealthy. I reluctantly thank Mark Zuckerberg who is really, really wealthy.

Ronnie has been a close friend. Lately he's become a very dear friend. We connect on things like puking at the thought of seafood and an unhealthy passion for meatloaf - but only good meatloaf. I tolerate his fried green tomatoes like a real friend should.

Something I didn't last year that I wish I did was spend more time locked away with my recorder, keyboard and writing stuff. I also wish all that coffee was water.

vote for the dental hygienist

2010-11-03T06:00:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was sorta like one of my semiannual teeth cleanings. The pain, relief and sense of fulfilled duty left me with both a little bit of a gritty, bad taste and a little woozy. But regardless, it always feels right to step into that booth and do a vote.

Like usual, I voted for a candidate or two that I wasn't completely in love with. But, I'm not sure I've ever cast a ballot for a politician who sees everything as I do. Heck, sometimes I don't even agree with my own positions. And on some things, I'm not sure I have an opinion - at least not one that's educated. I'm also prone to changing my mind when I learn more about a subject. Evidently, in politics, once you say something out loud you're not allowed to say something different - more enlightened or not. Knowing all that, I’d have some serious reservations before I’d even vote for myself.

… and speaking of flip-flopping. Most of last night’s winners that I heard seemed to speak very kind words of praise about their just-defeated opponents who were lying, thieving, corrupt societal menaces until very recently, when the polls closed. I wondered if I should believe their previous words or their current ones. I wondered if their next political adversary would point out their flip-flop the next time around.

For me, this time around, for the first time that I can remember, I ended Election Day feeling a little disappointed in myself. It’s not because not all of my favorite candidates won. It’s more because I felt forced to decide whether to let the end or the means make my decision. Because so many of the races and candidates where I live were so ugly and frankly, not always believable, I had to step into the voting booth yesterday and make a principled decision based on more than policy ideas. I had to judge some character. I hate judging. I don’t feel qualified to judge. I didn't make my decisions based entirely on the content of the info and ads each side presented, but on whether it could be believed, or whether it was necessary at all.

There was certainly no tingly feeling about it for me. I think I swallowed hard a time or two, wiped my brow, and even closed my eyes once so I wouldn't witness exactly what I was about to do. I walked out thinking I should wash my hands, and not at all eager to brag about some of the buttons I'd just pushed. (BTW, a bottle of hand sanitizer at each polling place would be a good idea.) It was tough, and I don’t regret my votes. And although I’m not necessarily proud of myself, I did vote.

11/3/10 please

2010-10-29T06:00:00.004-04:00

My debate coach once said that when you resort to derogatory names for your opponent your argument has become juvenile, you’ve diminished your own credibility, you’ve lost the audiences respect, and you’ve exhausted all of your intelligent information.

I’m ready now. I want to vote. If my vote means that all of the gosh-darn political ads will stop interfering with my entertainment and my usually happy attitude, I’ll run down and cast one now.

Lately I feel like I’m lugging a lot of heaviness around. I feel frustrated and sorta defeated. The air seems dirty and dense. It’s ruining my otherwise perfect Fall. Some say it’s Obama’s fault. Some blame the tea party folks. I think it’s all of these depressing political carpet-bomb attacks from ALL the sides. Where in the world do you buy a gajillion dollars worth of cat claws? And unless you have a generous supply of Wellbutrin or just lock yourself in a wireless-less closet, there’s no way to escape the negativity and the cloud.

I’m certainly not a cynic, but the constant rotation of pithy words and grainy, slo-mo images we’ve been subject to for longer than seems necessary have made it hard not to be. So, to help myself sleep and to keep me smiling, I’ve changed some habits and invoked some bible. Specifically Philippians 4:8.

I hardly watch live TV anymore. The thirty-second doses of political tit-for-tat eye poking, and shin kicking among the grownups, and the extra effort it takes to decipher which one, if either, is telling me the truth, has motivated me to either record the stuff I want to see or, thanks to DVR, start watching about ten or fifteen minutes into the show so I can FF through all the exaggerations. But if do you see the ads, and you believe even part of what you’re told, regardless of who wins, it’ll be a dishonest, corrupt criminal clown who runs the victory lap – and the government. (To those who wonder, this explains voter apathy.)

I enjoy reasonable debate about policies, positions and politics. And it seems there’s certainly a market for biased political discussion, going both ways, on all the media. I think that’s good. But it often frustrates me when I hear a radio or TV host, even one that I know shares my own views, lose the argument AND respect for the point because they couldn’t avoid useless personal insults. What makes the guy behind the mic think he can convince an adult to change their position or see things his way when he argues like a kid? That’s why I don’t listen to talk radio anymore. No dish on the folks who do. I don't get into extreme fighting either. (Same kind of sport. Same kind of result.)

I personally know a lot of the folks who are running for office this time around. I know them well enough to know that they really are good people. I know them well enough to know that most of the things said about them in the commercials, on the news, in the interviews, and in the debates really aren’t true. I know them well enough to know that if they are elected or re-elected they will be good officials. I know them well enough to know that they don’t really breathe fire, hate puppies and steal crutches. I know them well enough to know that they don’t really believe their opponents do either. Maybe that’s the main reason I hate all this ugly political trickery. I know these people. They’re better than they’re portrayed and they’re better than they’re acting.

I’m anxious to hurry up and vote and get back to my regularly scheduled, mostly happy programming.

a kinda modern political tv ad

2010-10-21T06:00:00.001-04:00

video: fast-fade in (waste shot) current GW in most expensive suit - pull back to full shot then fade out
audio: chirping birds to harpsichord playing Bach sonata
vo (sarcastic tone):
George Washington. He'd like you to think he's one of us. But we know better.

video: disolve to women wearing high fashion drinking tea behind large castle and well dressed children playing
audio: cut to to classical violin playing Mozart Concerto No. 5
vo (sarcastic tone) NOTE: spit "fancy" and stress 'not"
A child of privelege, George Washington was born on a fancy plantation with a fancy silver spoon. This wealthy aristocrat grew up in private schools and fancy parlors. He's not one of us.

video: cut to stills of GW and wife in fancey clothes - fast flash cut-ins of tattered slaves - disolve to GW posing in British uniform (Photoshop edits)
audio: fade from Mozart violins to "Brainbug Nightmare" by Sinister Strings (mid-point) then to military band playing "Rule, Britania"
vo (sarcastic) NOTE: stress "secret"
Then Fancy George married even more money and became a member of a secret society. Slave-driving George Washington once bowed to the British king, worked for foreign companies and even hoped to join the enemy's Navy.

video: cut to regimented troops, dissolve to gradual pullback (start face-close) of young, dying soldiers on battlefield - fade to black then to gradual pullback (start face-close) of solemn woman holding dirty, crying child and city burning behind - fade to b/w closeup of defeated GW face.
audio: fade to weeping strings
vo (stern but solemn tone) NOTE: drop voice to despair at end
While in charge of his own country's troops, gun-happy George sent more than 25,000 brave American men and boys into deadly ambush and disease - leaving countless desperate widows and orphans to fend for themselves. Thanks to George Washington, our greatest cities fell into enemy hands.

video: pop into closeup of angry GW face - pull back to arrogant GW counting money, sinister laugh and big belly
audio: back to harpsichord playing Bach sonata
vo (concern-to-angry tone) NOTE: stress "took over"
Still not satisfied, King George took over the Constitutional Convention and found a way to write himself a big, fat paycheck - courtesy of you. No other president has raised more taxes or thrown more of your hard earned money across the river.

video: cut to b/w closeup of GW face (in wince) - slow pullback with dissolve rotation of previous images (Large castle, GW in British uniform, slave, dying soldiers, crying child, ragged woman, burning city...)
audio: thunder w/startling strings
vo (very snide) NOTE" stress "we"
George Washington. Traitor, elitist and incompetent leader. We can do better.

video: pop to black with small text
audio: none
vo (professional):
Paid for by the committee to rid our country of its only career politician.

god vs fred - a reprise

2010-10-12T06:00:00.000-04:00

Matthew Shepard should’ve been 33 years old by now. I wrote and posted the following words on my blog one year ago:

I’m thinking that Fred Phelps and his hate-in-the-name-of-Jesus congregation have never felt the hurt in any of the broken hearts they protest. I’ll bet they’ve never considered comforting a devastated parent or the spouse or child of a military soldier just tragically lost. Chances are they’ve not once followed the real Jesus example of compassion and weeping with the broken and sad. I’m sure that they never, ever looked into the eyes of Judy Shepard to express sorrow that her 21 year old son had been tortured and killed so violently and so senselessly.

If I give much thought to the wackos at Westboro I get angry. In the stupid/arrogant/psycho & disturbed hall of insanity, the Phelps plaque hangs just around the corner from the Hitler and the Hussein. I’d love to express more heartfelt disgust, but it’s very judgmental of me and my language would certainly lean offensive. Too, I have no more appreciation for my own judgementalism than theirs or anyone else’s, and I certainly don’t wish to lower myself to the Phelps family way.

Matthew Shepard died eleven years ago. Eleven years and six days ago he was alive, but barely, having been beaten into a coma and left for dead in a remote Wyoming field. The two guys who were responsible for luring him into their car, robbing him, pistol-whipping him, torturing him, tying him to a fence and leaving him for dead are locked up now with two consecutive life sentences each. They admitted that they, like Fred Phelps’ god, hate fags. So they killed him.

Matthew was gay. But had he been fat or black or Hispanic or female or poor or anything else that would distinguish him from his attackers, could there ever be justification for the savage, heartless brutality he endured? One of his killers said that as they bashed Matthew’s head with the butt of their gun over and over again, he was screaming and begging them to stop, pleading for his life. They took his shoes, tied him painfully tight with a sharp, thin rope to a rough prairie fence post, then drove away into a chilly night leaving him in the cold to die. It was said that when he was found eighteen hours later Matthew’s face was covered in blood, except for the tracks that were made by his tears.

A lot has been said since Matthew’s murder about the need for extra punishment for those whose crime is motivated by their personal prejudices. I’m sorta mixed on the notion. But then again, I’ve not been a victim – not like Matthew. Although, the more I think about the fear that Matthew must’ve felt, his futile pleas for mercy, the hopelessness of being bound in the cold, in the wilderness, his terribly long and painful night of suffering and his last few agonizing days struggling to live – all because, only because he was gay – the more justified it seems.

Today, the anniversary of Matthew Shepard’s death, would be a good day to consider the need for understanding and compassion among us. If you look at anyone and see less or more because of their skin or their stature or their gender or their ability or their affections or their position or their faith or their failures or their wardrobe or their politics or their car or their talents or their wealth or their success or their past or anything else, it might be good to ask God what He sees.
It’s certainly tough to see and like people like Fred Phelps. I’m glad God can.

missing tony

2010-10-08T06:00:00.003-04:00

I miss Tony. On the days that life or business consumed and it never occurred to me to laugh, he'd call. I'd say Hi. He'd spit out a one-liner. I'd bust a gut laughing. He'd laugh and snort too while he hung up the phone. The whole thing would last maybe thirty seconds. But I'd laugh the rest of the day. It's been too many days now since the last one of those moments. I miss Tony.

Need a gospel flashlight? It doesn't matter. Need it or not, Tony was good at selling you one. He could stand on the stage and sell anything, and most of the time you didn't realize he was pitching. You wanted whatever he offered even if you already had it. And you never felt snookered when you bought his goods. Tony stood by his words because Tony's endorsement was a promise. And even in the Gospel music world that's not always the case. Makes me miss him.

What a voice... When I first heard Tony sing, lots of years ago, it hadn't changed yet. Back then, when he harmonized with his family, his notes were above both his brother AND his sister. But man, when puberty finished with him, what an incredible set of lead-singing pipes he ended up with. Since then, when the song needed a man's power voice, Tony's was it. Otherwise, he was the subtle, blending anchor part that was crucial to some of the prettiest phrasing and harmony anywhere. He knew his parts. I'm glad we have lots of recordings to remember him by. But I still miss his singing.

Hundreds of thousands of people, probably more, have forgotten their worries because Tony gave them a moment and a place in which to escape. He knew that responsibility as he stepped onto the stage every night. He and I would talk about our ministry role of being a balm that soothes while God does the bigger thing of repairing and healing the reasons for the hurt. He'd remind me of that from time to time, especially when I didn't feel like singing. He'd tell me to stop being so selfish and to stop depriving hurting people of their opportunity to feel-good, even if only for a while. "Who knows when they'll get another chance to laugh or feel God?" he'd say. Sometimes I don't want to sing. I need Tony.

Sometimes Tony's tales were heard and accepted by the standards of the National Inquirer's official understanding of believability. If a story is so outlandish that no one in their reasonable mind would believe it, they probably shouldn't. Sometimes I didn't know which parts of his stories were fact or not. It didn't matter though. When Tony told it, it was a Tony tale. We took it for what it was, laughed at it and probably re-told it as our own. His version was always funnier. I'd like to hear the one about the fox tattoo again.

Tony was in love with Taranda. The music they made together was Heaven-meant, and it was impossible to not recognize the chemistry and the believability and the compatibility they had with each other. It was the music that introduced them to each other, but the moments without an audience was what made them lovers and partners. And they were devoted partners. A good part of Tony's life was to support and encourage the incredible and anointed gift that is his wife's. Of course Tony loved Isabella and Jocelyn. He didn't completely understand the thinking of itty-bitty girls. But to love them he didn't have to. Tony loved all of his family, and sometimes they all had a lot to love each other through. He's been my model in that way and I've learned a lot from his example of waiting. Gee, I miss his wisdom.

Tony was devoted to the people who supported him. Only a few days before he went to the hospital for the last time he was in the middle of a huge exhibit hall with a line of fans wrapped around corners and aisles just to see him. Although no one was allowed to touch him for fear of transmitting an infection, he looked tired. And like so many others, I was concerned for him. I told him then that he shouldn't be there. The people would understand There were too many germs, and it was dangerous, and as much as everyone wanted to see him, he would be safer in a more sterile place. He told me that these people meant a lot to him. He wanted to see them while he could because he didn't know if he'd ever have the chance to see them again. Tony loved those people. He appreciate their kindness. He was determined to repay it.

As much as Tony was a cut-up and a charmer, a master communicator, a successful businessman, an accomplished singer, a remarkable entertainer, an effective minister, a devoted lover, a committed father, an incredibly close friend and so much more, Tony was above everything a Christian. His faith identified him. His stories and songs, his phone calls and his life were all wrapped by his commitment and compulsion to share why he laughed, why he loved, why he sang and why he cared. He lived his life doing his best to return the favors that God had been so generous in sharing. I have to tell you, it's so refreshing to remember. But right now I am so missing Tony.

missed me words

2010-10-01T06:00:00.000-04:00

I've been gone. I've left a silent couch sitting empty for several months now.

Time went by fast, really fast. I've been absent from posting words here for a long time now, much longer than I intended. I first planned to just keep silent for a few weeks. I needed to get past some crucial deadlines. But once out of the habit of sharing thoughts and eventually, after several months of feeling guilty for telling people who'd asked why I was ignoring my chat couch that I'd start posting again soon, then not doing it, I became kind of ashamed.

Although I've not written here lately, I have been writing. I have messenger bags full of pads full of pages full of words that no one has seen or read. Looking back through them lately, I've noticed that sometimes my assembled words make no sense at all. What in the world does, "riding rainbow roller coasters" mean, and where in the world did a thought like that come from? The point: I've been writing, just silently.

So, my intent over the next several days or weeks or however long I feel impressed, is to occasionally look back through some of my rambling, scratched out thoughts and share them here. When I do, I may expound some, or I may leave things virgin and original, as I first imagined it. I may share the background (if I remember it or if I noted it at the moment) or, like the weird thought above, I may have no clue what opened the brain door to something so random.

Besides my piles of paper, I'm always sending me emails and texts, leaving myself voice mail messages, using the handy little voice memo ap on my iPhone and pecking out lines in my smarter-than-I-am-phone notes. Evidently something inspired me at the grocery store a while back. I was cleaning the car last week and found, "fake thunder - fake storm - fake rain," on the back of an old shopping list. I reckon the magic moment happened in produce.

So, thanks for your patience. Thanks for waiting. Thanks for not giving up and believing that I'd be back with something to say. Thanks for stopping me in the mall or at a concert or while I'm trying to enjoy dinner with friends or while I'm at the urinal to tell me that you've missed sitting on my couch. I'm not even partially sure what these off-the-page postings will look like, but flipping through my scribbles, let's call it something intellectual like abstract art.

home, home on the web

2010-01-01T12:00:00.002-05:00

Gas is expensive these days. Just so I won't have to make the commute, from this day and this moment henceforth, the words of Kenny Bishop shall be found a little closer to his web home. Make a note and meet me at www.kennybishop.com/blog. We've worked really hard to make it look, feel, taste and smell as much like you're used to as possible.

The platform there is WordPress instead of Blogger. So, if you've subscribed to the feed here and wish to keep tuning in after the move, it'll be necessary to resubscribe there. I really, really, really, really, really, really hope you will.

peace...
kb

1st decade of the 21st century of the 3rd millennium

2009-12-31T18:00:00.003-05:00

Ten years ago I was sitting on the bus behind the big arena in Winston Salem, North Carolina waiting for all the world's computers to crash. When it happened, society as we knew it was scheduled to end. Not that I'd done anything to prepare for the sudden dark ages. Honestly, if I'd really thought something that big was going to happen I'd have been back home in Kentucky where Mark Twain said he wanted to be when the world came to an end because it's always twenty years behind.

About 9,000 people were inside the arena taking in the first couple of acts. It would be our turn in an hour or two, closer to the local countdown to destruction. The contract for this particular show required all of the artists to be on the stage, singing full voice at midnight. I wondered what would happen if all-of-the-sudden the lights went out. The stage was in the round, so we were surrounded by the audience. Would there be enough security there with flash lights to get us all off the stage, through the crowd, to a safe place? What if all the batteries in those flashlights got wind of the plan and stopped working too? With no sound system to give amp to a calm voice of direction, would there be pandemonium and chaos? Was there indeed a plan? Was THAT built into our contract?

So I sat on the bus wondering what might happen and scanning the channels to see how the folks who'd already flipped their calendars were coping. As it turned out, if the lights even flickered nobody noticed.

I don't know what I was expecting. The months and weeks leading up to - or counting down to the new year/decade/century were filled with warnings from some and dismissals from others. Some of the most dire predictions I heard actually came from a few TV preachers who had taken advantage of the occasion by offering anointed survival kits. For a gift to the Lord's work of $75 you and your spouse can live to tell about it. For $50 more your kids can join you. I knew people who took all of the uncertainty very seriously. They stocked up on canned goods, duct tape and supplies. I knew a couple of folks who built shelters and cellars. They weren't taking any chances. I'm not sure what use they have for them now.

I consider myself and all the other pre-two thousanders survivors. Now, celebrating the first ten years of the twenty-first century of the third millennium, I feel like we've come a long, long way. It's hard to imagine what'll pop up in the days and decades ahead. To be honest with you, when I was a kid I thought we'd be wearing tin-foil jumpers and strapping into hover-cars by now. So did Walt Disney.

junked up christmas

2009-12-25T06:00:00.002-05:00

Pop in at my place unannounced and it's likely you'll find me looking pretty comfy. Unless I'm expecting company, I usually don't dress for company. Otherwise it's shorts and a t-shirt or sometimes my bath robe and PJs. If I don't figure anyone but me is around to notice, I may let a pair of shoes or a half-read book lay around for a day or two. I may even allow the plates and coffee cups to sit in the sink 'til there are enough to bother with. Still though, I prefer to know if you're coming.

It's Christmas now. So with lots of family and loads of friends popping in and out, the plan is to try and keep me, my place and my things as presentable as possible. Be prepared for the president, I say. I can be and have been, but it's hard to catch me unprepared for guests this time of year. Show up on my doorstep right now and I can legitimately offer you a bite of something, a cup of something or a glass of something and a nice, clean place to enjoy it. Knowing this time was coming, I was able to prepare.

Back when Herod was fuming about this new kid king he'd been hearing about; back when the shepherds were wondering where those voices were coming from, their heads or the sky, and if it had anything to do with the field grass they were smoking, er, sleeping on; back when the inn-keeper was wondering what the commotion in the barn was all about and second guessing if it was smart to send a pregnant woman out there; back when star gazers showed up on the Joseph family door with expensive gifts for a baby who'd already been walking on that sort of thing; back when prophet after priest after pulpiteer predicted he was coming and just this way, it was still like no one expected it when baby Jesus showed up in Bethlehem.

It appears that the world was startled and not a little rattled that God dropped in all-of-the-sudden via a Mary and a manger. They obviously weren't expecting him when and where and how he came. The house was a mess. The place wasn't ready. Everybody was living like there'd be no company, lounging around in their comfort wear. Had they known a king was coming they would've at least tried to tidy the place up a bit; kick the crumbs under the rug; toss the piled up clothes in the spare room; close the door; break out the Febreze; hide the mail; throw the dishes in the washer; put on a suit, brush the teeth, comb the hair... And, this was THE King - cause for a good, thorough scrubbing.

He was a baby and a human, yes. As God though, I'm thinking that Jesus knew well what he was coming into. We could've painted the place up, put on a new outfit and showed up in a Lamborghini, but I'm not convinced he'd be convinced of our success or our cleanliness. He'd know that we don't really live in museums, that we only wear suits when the rules and/or expectations make us. He also knows that sometimes pot holes are unavoidable regardless of the ride. God knows we don't smile all the time.

Sometimes I cheat. When I get short notice that company's coming, instead of cleaning stuff up I hide it. Please, PLEASE don't come to my house expecting a grand tour. Some rooms are off limits. There's junk in there. And God knows it. That's why He came. That's why we have Christmas.

thank you day

2009-11-26T06:00:00.001-05:00

Afrikaans - Dankie
Albanian - Faleminderit
Arabic - Sukran
Armenian - shur-nur-ah-gah-lem
Australian - Thoinks, Moite!
Basque Country - Eskerrik asko
Bengali - Dhannyabad
Bulgarian - Blagodaria
Bosnia - Hvala
Burma - Jae Zu Din Pa De
Cameroon - Na som
Canada - Thank You
Cantonese - Do jey
Catalonia - gràcies
Cherokee Nation - Wado
Cherokee (Eastern) - Skee
Chinese (Mandarin) - Xie_Xie
Chinese (Cantonese) Do jeh
Cook Islander - Kia Manuia
Croatia - Hvala
Czech – Dekuji
Danish - tak
Dutch - bedankt
English - Thank you
Esperanto - Dankon
Ewe Togo - Apké na wo
Fijian - Vinaka
Finnish - kiitos
Fon Benin - Kpè nu wé
French - merci
F.Y.R.O.M. - Hvala
Gambia - Abarka
Georgia - madlobt
German - Danke
Greek - Efharisto
Guarani - Aguije
Guinea - Abarka
Gujarathi - Aabar
Hawaiian - Mahalo
Hebrew - Toda
Hindi - Dhanyavaad
Hungarian - Köszönöm
Icelandic - Þakka þér fyrir
Indonesian - Terima kasih
Iran - Moteshakeram
Irish - Go raibh mile maith agat
Italian - Grazie
Japanese - Arigato
Javanese - Matur nuwun
Kannada - Dhan-ya-vaadaa
Korean - Kamsa hamaida
Latvian - Paldies
Lithuanian - Achu
Luganda - Waybale
Malayalam - Nandi
Malaysian - Terima Kasih
Mali - Abarka
Mandinka - Abarka
Maori - Kia Manuia
Nepali - Dhan-ya-vaad
New Zealand - Cheers
Nigeria - Na gode
Norwegian - Takk
Oman - Shakkran
Palauan - soolong
Paraguay - Aguije
Persian/Farsi - Mam'noon
Philippines Tagalog - Salamat
Polish - Dziekuje
Portuguese - Obrigado
Punjabi - Bhala Hove
Qatar - Shakkran
Romanian - Multumesc
Russian - Spasiba
Samoan - Talofa
Saulteaux Indians - Miigwech
Scottish - Cheers
Scot's Gaelic - Tapadh Leibh
Senegal - Abarka
Serbo -Hvala
Slovakia – Dakujem
South Africa - Dankie
Spanish - Gracias
Sundanese - Nuhun
Sunda - Hatur Nuhun
Swahili - Ahsante
Swedish - Tack
Tahitian - Maururu
Tamil - Nandri
Telungu - Manjuthe
Thai - Khob Khun
Tibetan - Thuk Ji Chhe
Turkish - Saðol
U.S. - Thank You
Ukranian - Dyakuyu
Urudu - Shukria
Urdu - Shukria
Uzbekistan - Rahmat
Vietnamese - Kam ouen
Wales/Cymru - Diolch
Xhosa - Nkosi
Yemen - Shakkran
Yiddish - A dank
Yoruba - Modupe
Yugoslavia - Hvala
Zulu - Ngiyabonga

21 years a daddy

2009-11-10T06:00:00.003-05:00

When I woke up this morning, twenty-one years ago I wasn't a daddy. By the end of the day though, I was not only a proud parent, but the child of my loin also happened to be the prettiest and most instantly intelligent human on the globe. Amazing how that happened I thought. Of all people, I was immediately able to start bragging that God had allowed me to father the world's most wonderful little girl.

Things haven't changed much since, except that she's even prettier and smarter now. I smile when I think of her. I tear when I miss her. She's always on my mind and constantly in the prayers I whisper. It's been going on that way for 21 years now. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Every day that I see her I get confirmation that my little girl, my Casie is one of my most valuable treasures ever. Happy birthday my baby girl! I love you.

false face

2009-10-31T12:00:00.004-04:00

As a kid I don't remember so much Mom taking us to the store to buy costumes. Best I can remember, most Halloweens we just found stuff already in the closets and made something up at home. Scarecrows were always pretty easy. Take a pair of bib overalls, a flannel shirt and some straw and there ya go. Paint a couple of big red dots on the cheeks and a little black on the nose, a hat if we had one... More than once I was a product of last-minute planning and ended up in one of Mom's outfits. I was a pretty little thing, 'cept back then Mom didn't wear makeup which made for a homely looking girl. One year we stuffed a pillow under my "blouse" and I was a pro-life, pre-teen example of what you should do if you get knocked up unexpectedly.

One year me, my brothers and a friend or two decided we wanted to be Kiss. This despite the fact that the visiting preacher at church said they were devil worshippers. I insisted on being Gene Simmons. I thought he was the coolest of the singing satanists, and as much as I didn't want to go to Hell, I did want to be coolest. Somehow we got some white and black face paint, some glitter and made due with the hair we had - spiking it and teasing it and mussing it up as best we could with mousse and gel and hairspray. My brother, Loren, ended up cutting his own hair to better get into character. After Mom delivered her cow she administered his punishment - which couldn't have been much worse than the ribbing he got at school the next day.

Ever once in a while, come Halloween we'd splurge and buy a mask. My mamaw called them false-faces. She seemed sorta fascinated with the concept. The first time we'd see her after trick-or-treat, she'd always ask us what kind of false-face we wore. "Evil Knievel," I said once. As much as I liked being more like the richer kids who could always afford to buy masks and costumes, I liked better the time Mom and I spent together sorting through drawers and closets trying to put together a crazy outfit that I'd wear just that once. They were usually over-the-top fashion disasters, but clowns and drag queens are funner than nuns and teachers. Besides, after a while of walking the neighborhood with a rubber band cutting through my face, no peripheral vision and smelling my own Tootsie Roll breath, I learned it was a whole lot more fun and freeing skipping door to door in a sheet, er, toga and Flip Flops. Besides, false-faces are dishonest.

gnats

2009-10-16T06:00:00.001-04:00

Gnats have been aplenty around central Kentucky this summer. At first I thought word was swarming around the bug world that my place was the hot new local gnat club, until I heard other folks talking about their own little problem guests. Evidently it's been a good year for gnats - if there is such a thing.

I've always been a generous rodent emancipator. When I was a kid my mom used to tell folks about me herding house-trapped flies and crickets to the door so they could live free in the wide open, instead of swatting or stomping 'em. I don't know what the purpose of such creatures is, but figuring there's probably not a bug heaven, (I don't know that for sure.) why not let them live as long as they can before ending their eternal existence?

When it comes to gnats though, I seem to not care so much. Gnats are annoying. They flit about almost like an apparition. Sometimes you're not even sure you see one, but you still swat at the air, 'cause they're annoying. For some reason I don't have a big heart for gnats. Actually, knowing that an adult gnat usually only lives for about a week anyway, I figure it was just days, maybe hours away from a natural death when it found the sticky paper in the kitchen. If all the other gnats care, they'll come to the paper to pay their last respects - and stick around.

god vs fred

2009-10-12T06:00:00.008-04:00

I'm thinking that Fred Phelps and his hate-in-the-name-of-Jesus congregation have never felt the hurt in any of the broken hearts they protest. I'll bet they've never considered comforting a devastated parent or the spouse or child of a military soldier just tragically lost. Chances are they've not once followed the real Jesus example of compassion and weeping with the broken and sad. I'm sure that they never, ever looked into the eyes of Judy Shepard to express sorrow that her 21 year old son had been tortured and killed so violently and so senselessly.

If I give much thought to the wackos at Westboro I get angry. In the stupid/arrogant/psycho & disturbed hall of insanity, the Phelps plaque hangs just around the corner from the Hitler and the Hussein. I'd love to express more heartfelt disgust, but it's very judgmental of me and my language would certainly lean offensive. Too, I have no more appreciation for my own judgementalism than theirs or anyone else's, and I certainly don't wish to lower myself to the Phelps family way.

Matthew Shepard died eleven years ago. Eleven years and six days ago he was alive, but barely, having been beaten into a coma and left for dead in a remote Wyoming field. The two guys who were responsible for luring him into their car, robbing him, pistol-whipping him, torturing him, tying him to a fence and leaving him for dead are locked up now with two consecutive life sentences each. They admitted that they, like Fred Phelps' god, hate fags. So they killed him.

Matthew was gay. But had he been fat or black or Hispanic or female or poor or anything else that would distinguish him from his attackers, could there ever be justification for the savage, heartless brutality he endured? One of his killers said that as they bashed Matthew's head with the butt of their gun over and over again, he was screaming and begging them to stop, pleading for his life. They took his shoes, tied him painfully tight with a sharp, thin rope to a rough prairie fence post, then drove away into a chilly night leaving him in the cold to die. It was said that when he was found eighteen hours later Matthew's face was covered in blood, except for the tracks that were made by his tears.

A lot has been said since Matthew's murder about the need for extra punishment for those whose crime is motivated by their personal prejudices. I'm sorta mixed on the notion. But then again, I've not been a victim - not like Matthew. Although, the more I think about the fear that Matthew must've felt, his futile pleas for mercy, the hopelessness of being bound in the cold, in the wilderness, his terribly long and painful night of suffering and his last few agonizing days struggling to live - all because, only because he was gay - the more justified it seems.

Today, the anniversary of Matthew Shepard's death, would be a good day to consider the need for understanding and compassion among us. If you look at anyone and see less or more because of their skin or their stature or their gender or their ability or their affections or their position or their faith or their failures or their wardrobe or their politics or their car or their talents or their wealth or their success or their past or anything else, it might be good to ask God what He sees.

It's certainly tough to see and like people like Fred Phelps. I'm glad God can.

me and my spider man

2009-10-02T08:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not always a patient driver. When I'm in a hurry, which is most of the time, I think everyone else should be too - or at least let me have the road. From time to time I'm not in a rush. Then I get all freaked out when somebody who is starts pushing me up the road. I'm a hypocrite that way. I get antsy at traffic lights. When I'm sitting still and others aren't I start coveting. Seriously, sometimes I wonder if I'm not right on the edge of sinning with it. I want that other guy's green light. Then the worst situation, when I'm the only car at the intersection and my light is perpetually red. Grrrr...

So, yesterday morning I'm sitting at the traffic light just kinda zoned out, kinda noticing the stuff around me, but not really. I look up to count down with the cross walk sign and notice a spider. It's itsy, tiny body is supported by very thin but long, long legs. It looks really weird, even for a spider. I'm figuring it ended up on my car from one of the trees or bushes where I parked. Regardless, unless it finds a safe place in a car cranny and soon, it's seen its last days at or near the Bishop house.

When my signal said go I wondered what the little guy would do. (Sorry so sexist.) Actually, I figured more than I wondered. I figured he'd blow away. He didn't. I don't know what he latched onto in that glass, but as soon as the wind hit that little arachnid he dug in and held on. His eight legs turned into one. I figured at some point, when the wind got too much he'd have to give up and join the breeze. Not so. Three, maybe four traffic lights later he was still there. I was starting to cheer him on. I wondered if there was a spider Olympics somewhere where I could sign him up. This little bug was good.

I had this whole thinking like a spider thing going on in my head. I don't know, but I might have even started voicing it out loud - putting words in his little mouth, thoughts in its little brain. "What the...!" "Where is this thing taking me?!" "Where is my tree?" "What have I done?!" "Dude! Slow down!" "We're stopping, thank God!" "Here we goooblblblblbl" Not knowing what language spiders usually speak, mine was talking good old American English, but with a slight exotic yet mid-western accent. Think Nebraskan moved to Puerto Rico and trying really hard to fit in. Besides, according to my religious upbringing, the whole world is western, Jesus was white, and the Middle Eastern ancients spoke like yet to be born 17th century English kings. (Another blog, maybe.) So I felt I could take a little licence.

Even though we'd just gotten acquainted, me and my spider started bonding. I couldn't control the signals (oh, but if I could...) and the horns, stares and fingers forced me to go with the flow of traffic. But I was becoming a fan. The little bugger needed a break from time to time, so I started hoping for red lights. Then it occurred to me about all of the other spiders on all of the other cars. I know how strong my spider is. He's proven that he can hang on at least up to 35 mph. I don't know about the other guy's spider.

It occurred to me that when my light is red and my spider is resting, the spiders on the cars with the green lights aren't. Just like my little guy, they're holding on with everything in them. Not every spider gets to relax, not all at once. Not all the cars are sitting still, and there's no relaxing when the car is moving.

How narrow and self-indulgent of me to think that my spider was the only spider. How arrogant to think that me and my spider deserved something that other people and their spiders didn't. How weird of me to talk like a spider.

caleb's dream - my review

2009-09-27T06:00:00.001-04:00

Back when I started writing and assembling music for my last record one of the writers I spent some time working with was Caleb Collins. Honestly, until I was told by my record company that they wanted him and me to write together, I'd never heard of him. I'm sure that he said the same thing.

If you're gonna do something as personal as writing music together, it's good to know a bit about your co's life and stuff. So, Caleb and I met and learned about each other, our backgrounds and musical likes and our own approaches to creating songs. I found out that he has deep Pentecostal roots. So do I. So we set out to take advantage of it. We ended up with a song called, "It's Never Too Late" and I used it to tie my record together at the end. He and I have collaborated since and have become great friends.

Caleb is more than a great writer. Last Christmas he released a holiday record that just blew me away. Now I'm fascinated with his newest album, Dream. I've not had it long because no one has until just a few days ago. But I've been wearing it out since downloading it to my iPod. (Well, actually my iPhone. But that seems pretentious to some people.)

Musically, I'm a lover of Josh Groban and Idina Menzel. The production on their records is big, orchestrated, current and sophisticated - the kind of stuff you'd hear in a poppish movie score. The music on Dream is just as large, maybe even trendier – but still very tasteful. Voice-wise, when a friend got in my car the other day he thought he was hearing Michael Buble. I would've said Harry Connick, Jr.

Yesterday I told Caleb that I'd love to see the liner notes that go with this project. I know that he either wrote or co-wrote all of the songs. I suspect he played most, if not all of the piano, keys and organ. I know he arranged and orchestrated some of the most remarkable strings and musical licks I've enjoyed in a long time. My sixteen year old son, who is just as fascinated by the texture and emotion of music as I am, was also just as captured by this recording as his dad.

Musically, the record is a wow! The point of the record though is obviously the message. It's a "gospel" collection of songs for Christians mostly it seems. But it's not a typical one. And it's not an obvious one unless you're paying attention. I will say though, I had no problems at all being lured in and getting the point, right from bar one.

It didn't hurt that the first words I heard were, "Hush and let me hold you now, while the rain is falling hard." It was pouring outside and my windshield wipers were barely keeping up. The message though was not only relevant and calming for that moment in the car, but for my place in life too. Like a lot of the songs, the words in track number one are through God's lips. The reassurance meant a lot to me at the time, and still does.

I thought it was neat that the very next song was an acknowledgement of the one before it. No less sophisticated musically, "Healer of My Heart" could play well on southern gospel radio I think. I can hear church praise and worship teams singing it too since it comes from the singer to God. There are a couple of others too that could probably accomplish some SGM radio success if politics doesn’t get involved, especially "Peace That Covers All the Pain."

The rest of the record mostly follows the pattern of God to Caleb (us), then Caleb's (our) response.

With all due respect, (please believe me) I don't think God is nearly as stuffy as we've made Him out to be, especially on Sunday mornings. There are a few songs in this collection that take that idea and run with it, almost to the point of being rebellious. "My Love" and "Sweet Child of Mine" are two of them. They're musically and lyrically fun. Christian, my son, really took a liking to them and hopes to sing them at school and church. A personal favorite is the most poignant "You're Safe Here."

Dream is a very deep experience. If all of these songs are from Caleb's heart and some of the experiences he's had (and maybe still has), he’s had some very heavy things on his mind. As a writer, he and his partners have done a remarkable job of saying just enough to allow me, as the listener, to place myself in the lyrics and the places the songs bring us to. At the same time though, there were a couple of moments I sorta had that sensation of relief you get after reading a suspenseful book and realizing you were only the reader. Good though is the fact that on this record no dilemma or difficult situation is left in a state of hopelessness. In every song, God always comes through.

To anyone who wishes to clap along to happy tunes about the sweet by-and-by or Peter's pearly gates or golden roads or happy reunions, this is not that kind of gospel record. Not even close really. These songs are about a testimony that's still being made here on earth. And as young as Caleb is, there is still a lot of dreaming yet to do. I’m anxious to hear about it.

To get Caleb’s recording Dream click here or go to www.calebcollins.com.

come now, children.

2009-09-08T07:00:00.001-04:00

It really doesn't bother me at all that President Obama is talking to the kids of America today. I have confidence in the conversations I've already had with my own kids and I trust their intellect. They know why I believe what I believe. I have a relationship with them that trumps that of the president. They have more reason to trust me than him. I didn't have to prove it by yelling at a congressman or shouting down another civic minded neighbor who happens to disagree with me or by sporting a crude bumper sticker.

I think it's because of my current government job, or past political jobs, that a lot of my family and many of my friends ask me about things politic. I'm always asked my opinion on current campaigns, debates, bills, policies and laws on the state and national level. "We gonna be able to gamble in Kentucky anytime soon?" "They gonna take Rush Limbaugh off the radio?" "Can you get me out of this ticket?" I always try to answer the fiercely partisan stuff as unpartisan as I can - the way news reporters should but don't always.

My toned down and parsed responses, which are probably a product of my having to speak politically strategic for so many years (don't pick an unnecessary fight), are often met with a little disappointment. Nowadays, it seems conservatives like to see liberal blood - and vice versa. Truth is, in my opinion, most of the stuff we hear over and over again on talk radio and cable news and morning TV is just scripted screaming meant to rile, enrage and scare us mad. And it seems to be working.

Some guy on the radio yesterday asked if Obama had anything more important to do than use up two hours of his kid's school day with liberal indoctrination. I'm betting the caller is a Republican. I'd also wager that he would've been all about Junior and all of his young "liberal" friends sitting in on President Reagan's address to the classrooms back in '88. A wise word or two from a great conservative would be good for the lot of them. I don't remember if the Dems were making issues of the GOP president's talk back then, but if they did, they were just as guilty of paranoia peddling as all these professional talkers nowadays who are trying their best to make our current president the dictator of the next Holocaust.

I'm not about giving President Obama free reign. I have some serious concerns about the structure and strength of the new federal health care plan he's pushing. Most of my questions are about who and what is covered, what it's going to cost, how it'll be paid for and all the trickery in its administration. History proves that the folks in DC are reckless managers without much practical money sense.

I'm concerned that so much of our auto and banking industries are owned by the government. It's always an issue to me when what is supposed to be a privately owned or publicly traded company is in the hands of the same people who are armed and charged with keeping our foreign enemies at bay. And I don't like that the most powerful home-office in the world has so many extreme thinking "czars" with desks only steps from the oval, who have no congressional oversight and answer only to the president.

However, most of the media chatter I'm hearing is hypocritical. If this president goes on vacation he gets beat up by the same people with mics or web sites who supported President Bush's right to get away for a few days. All POTUS' vacay for a while. (Like a president ever is really on vacation anyway??) The talkers who bash Obama for wanting to encourage kids to study hard, stay in school and do their homework are all about sainting Mr. Reagan who did the same thing twenty years ago. (I am a big Reagan fan BTW.)

In war, the objective is to destroy the enemy. Politics isn't much different. Convince the public that everyone who disagrees with your point of view is an evil racist or a bigot or an elitist or a radical extremist or just plain stupid and you're on your way to winning the battle. The White House is not above it. Neither is the House or Senate or the leaders of either party. Neither are the TV/radio talkers and bloggers who know how to play the game. It's their job. They are expected to be loud and take issue with every deed and magnify every flaw of their political opposite.

All of that being said, I'm as grateful as anyone that ours is a country where it's possible to disagree with whoever is in charge of the government for the moment and say so wherever, however we want. I just hate it when the school kids make us grownups look like the juvies.

do hoarders go to heaven?

2009-09-04T06:00:00.005-04:00

I'm a hoarder. Saying it out loud sounds kinda dirty. But I am. I keep things that are supposed to be temporary thinking maybe they'll be useful again - maybe. I'm bad enough that one time when a friend obviously made a quick stop at the store to pick up a card on the way to my birthday dinner, and just stuffed it in the envelope without writing on it or signing it, I put my name on it and gave it to another friend a few days later. Why waste a clean card? Had I not been a hoarder that card wouldn't have had the chance to bring cheer to yet another happy birthdayee.

For about the last year and a half I've been using my extra bedroom as a "temporary" storage space. When my very patient former in-laws got tired of going into their attic and stepping around all my stuff, they kindly took it all out and dropped it off at my parent's house. When my parents decided to clean out their garage it was time for me to take possession of the eight or ten boxes of who knows what. So, I carried them all home, took them straight to the back bedroom and told myself I'd go through them on my next free weekend. About a year later, this past weekend, I finally did it.

Evidently I'm a longtime hoarder. Most of this stuff goes back to the 1980s at least. Why in the world would I have kept roller skate toe stoppers? I'm wondering what the significance of the yellow handkerchief is. I'll bet it used to be white. Regardless, why would I hang onto it? Keeping pictures makes sense. My yearbooks and notes from old flames and hard-researched thesis papers and certificates and diplomas and newspaper clippings, my cap and gown and school programs and trophies all make sense. But a little bag of rice?? Was this ever my wallet?

I'd forgotten that I earned a letter jacket in high school. All that work and money to Lee College so I can be a preacher and all I've got now is framed papers behind cracked glass. A silk rose... Wonder whose wedding? Pictures of Kim, Chris, Troy, Robbie, Elizabeth, Danny, Tracy, Sheri and so many other friends from so many years ago looking like I remember most of them the last time I saw them. We promised we'd stay in touch. We even put it in writing in each other's yearbooks. People don't believe me when I tell them I played two parts in "Oklahoma" one night at Madison Central High School. Now I have proof. And here, I'm wearing those famous von Trapp family curtains that Maria made for us. Fun! I was Friedrich, the oldest boy whose voice had changed although mine hadn't really, yet. Tell me I wasn't a good actor.

Hoarders aren't good at tossing things. Although my attic is a mess, the rest of my house is not a piled up depository. As a matter of fact, as much as I'm a hoarder in private, in my line-of-sight space I like things nice and orderly, without clutter. I kept the back bedroom door closed.

After I sorted through the boxes that my in-laws and my parent's had stored for me, I bought new, fresh, plastic ones and re-put the memories inside for safe keeping - again. Until I get up the nerve to take on the attic. They'll be fine.

stringing for amy the pcv

2009-09-03T12:00:00.001-04:00

I'm guilty, and I've been feeling it. So, the notes and the threats from my adoring fan(s) hoping to prompt me to do something bloggish haven't been necessary. The encouragement though is always nice, especially since I've been waking up most everyday these last couple of weeks with the urge to sit on the big red couch and start talking. I've actually even started at least a handful of posts and just fizzled out or got distracted before the thought was complete. My drafts folder is loaded with incomplete ramblings and things that were pretty topical for the moment. I've also made lots of notes about things bouncing around my brain. Plenty a thought has crossed my mind - some dreadful, some weird and some sorta meaningful. So, that being said, the next several days I'll prolly hop to and fro and ramble in an effort to catch up.

I tied one on for Amy the other day. The moment she left the US for her two year stint as a Peace Corp Volunteer I wrapped a little string around my ankle and made a firm knot to keep it in place. I see it everyday and it reminds me of my super friend who I miss right now more than I know how to express. It'll be there until Namibia lets us have her back. I get an email from her when she can catch some Net service, and I read them all like an anticipated next chapter. We also get to follow Amy's PCV journey at http://amywickliffeinafrica.blogspot.com/.

Now, I've gotta go blow my nose. Allergies...

maybe i'm a junkie. maybe i'm bored.

2009-07-22T06:00:00.008-04:00

Sometimes I get unsettled. I want to do something else, be somewhere else. Sometimes I want to even be someone else. I'm not at all unhappy or even disquieted with my station today. Maybe I'm just bored. I think though, if I had to do some precision explaining, I'd probably admit that I'm not feeling the challenge lately - not stretching enough - not creatively tested.

As much as the not-so-hoggish side of me wants to deny it, I think I'm happiest under the lights. I honestly don't know that it's the attention I get when I'm seen and heard that is so attractive to me as much as it's that I get to play a part. Holding an audience is my passion. And knowing that a person carved out time and resources to stop, sit and listen to what I have to perform is very humbling to me. When they take a seat in front of my stage they are trusting me to at least entertain them, or better still, connect emotionally, even spiritually about deeper things. I love using songs and dances and scripts to communicate. I get giddy knowing there is a stage somewhere with my toe-mark on it.

I've studied and taught the science of presentation, performance and communication. The tricks of pos-v-neg body sides, limb language, facial confidence and expression, dressing for the role, and talking without words has been part of my job description for a lot of years now. I enjoy the science of public perception. But using those theories to make someone else more sellable and attractive doesn't fulfill my own yearning for more selfish (I guess) artistic and freer expression. Artsy people get creatively anxious fairly easily - and often. At least I do.

I'm an artsy person. As much as I was always taught as a kid that, other than spiritual shaking and twirling, all dancing is choreographed in Hell, I like to dance. To me the movement is so much creative art. Even with music that doesn't fully entertain me, I enjoy listening for unexpected harmonics that can make up a curious piece of musical art. Sometimes I hear a gorgeous progression or note movement for the first time and wonder where that little bit of brilliance has been since the dawn of time. Sometimes I get jealous that it wasn't born at the end of my pen. But regardless of its origin, I enjoy its presence and I appreciate it as personal art. People think I'm weird when I tell them that one of my favorite composers was the great Mr. Fred Rogers.

Right now I want to continue doing what I'm doing. My colleagues can't be beat. My tasks are enjoyable and I'm shown sincere appreciation. I get to work on projects that use colors and sounds and other elements that artists enjoy working with. I'm more than happy these days, and very grateful.

I guess the unsettled emotions of today are because right now I'm craving a stage - one with lights and mics and marks and cues and an audience. I'm in need of a fix. Maybe I'm a stage whore or a junkie. Maybe I'm bored.

under the influence...

2009-06-26T12:00:00.002-04:00

I enjoy being able to be a part of lively and proper conversation. It seems especially to happen a lot when I share a thought or two on my Facebook and Myspace pages. I've noticed lately that some very hurtful and distasteful words are being thrown around, and too many of them claim to be inspired by and in the name of Jesus. The reckless attitudes and overly loud arguments, supposedly supported by scripture, as far as I can tell, do nothing to edify God, properly explain who He is, and cause no one to want to know Him, but in fact make Him appear pretty heartless and ugly. Who'd want such a God?

Saying, "Jesus didn't sugar coat sin," and calling out other humans as sluts and pedophiles and declaring them evil in the name of Jesus does tremendous disservice to God's original love, and demeans His creation in ways that I'm not sure He appreciates. Who, in the Scripture, did Jesus convince of God's good intentions by beating them and emotionally accosting them? Why would we inflict emotional, even physical pain on ones He chooses to heal? It was Jesus, by the way, who said he'd been sent to love the world and not condemn it. He didn't say so of the "church."

A couple of years ago I did a record that was very purposefully and strategically planned to highlight God's real grace. The record company, the publicist, the producer, the writers and everyone involved understood that this would be a collection of songs about the deepest emotion in God's heart. It has turned out to be a remarkable thing for a lot of people - people who had pretty much written off anything religious because every example of religion they knew was either hypocritical or mean, hateful even.

Woody Wright produced the record (shout out!!), and he wrote several of the songs. My favorite is, "More Than Amazing." It reminds me of the enormity of God's grace. I sing it to myself a lot. There's another Woody song on the project though that, because it's a light and happy arrangement, comes across as fun and not so deep. In fact, it's very introspective and could even be convicting if a receptive ear would notice. I share it here and now hoping that some of my friends who prefer easy and distant judgement will consider a more compassionate approach.

UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF MERCY

When a brother fell and broke the Lord's command, I was quick to judge and slow to understand. When a sister had a struggle, I said, "You're reaping what you've sown." But then I found some trouble of my own.

Now I'm under the influence of mercy. My perception has been altered by His grace. I see things in a different light. I walk by faith and not by sight. If you notice something different about me. I am under the influence of mercy.

These days I'm more inclined to lend a hand. And try to make a difference when I can. Through the tests and trials I won't grumble or complain. I'll count it joy and I will gladly say.

I am under the influence of mercy. My perception has been altered by His grace. I see things in a different light. I walk by faith and not by sight. If you notice something different about me. I am under the influence of mercy.

I've been given unconditional love. I will never be the same.

I am under the influence of mercy. My perception has been altered by His grace. I see things in a different light. I walk by faith and not by sight. If you notice something different about me. I am under the influence of mercy.

Under The Influence Of Mercy - Woody Wright © 2006 Would He Write Songs, SESAC
(administered by Gaither Copyright Management)

too many rips

2009-06-26T09:00:00.002-04:00

It's been a difficult week in Hollywood. The lovers of Ed, Farrah and Michael have been in the streets, on the phone (texting and talking) and glued to their televisions to learn what they can, and relive some of the great memories and moments that were made happier because of the laughs and the scenes and the songs we all enjoyed through these remarkable talents.

Who can not like Ed McMahon? The man sat on Johnny Carson's couch, hung in there all night with Jerry Lewis and delivered schzillion dollar checks courtesy of the sweepstakes people. No good reason not to like Ed.

Farrah was my first crush. She was an angel, and if kids my age had the money, we'd have bought her shampoo just to see what she smelled like. I didn't worship her like some have accused me, but I did sit beneath her poster and pray she'd come to life.

I wasn't allowed to dance as a kid. But gosh, it was hard not to when Michael Jackson was singing. I didn't know much about his story. I knew I LOVED his music. As we both got older I noticed that he started changing in lots of ways - some of them sorta weird. His music only got better though, and I finally gave up the notion that God didn't give us legs just to kneel on. I never quite mastered the moon walk, but my good and godly brother did.

It's sad to see these folks leave us. Some people don't think so though. To me that is even more sad.

john 4 - religer version

2009-06-26T06:00:00.001-04:00

So Jesus the condemner was forced to go through Samaria and came to a heathen little town called Sychar. It was near the piece of ground that the cheating liar Jacob had given to his one good son Joseph. As it turns out, Jacob's well was there.

It was about noon, and Jesus was tired, so he sat down for a bit. At some point a local, half-breed woman came to the well to get some water for the day. Jesus said, "Oh man! Of all people... Oh well, a thirsty guy has to drink. Hey slut, give me some water."

The filthy harlot said, "Um, our kinds don't talk to each other, remember? As much as I truly do desire to walk in your shadow and be in your presence and learn from your word and eat from your table and bask in your love, I'm afraid I've been too bad. I'm unworthy. I'm a whore. You're a really righteous, God fearing church goer. Your church might call a committee and have a hearing and remove you from leadership or take your Sunday school class or your choir robe. You don't want them to find out we were talking. I'm not worth it, so, thank you for asking, but for your own sake, no."

Jesus answered, "You're right. What was I thinking? You don't deserve my time or anything else. I'd rather die of thirst than take a drop from the likes of you. You're a dirty human. Besides, what kind of respectable person comes hauling water at noon? You're not only a skank, you're stupid."

Jesus dusted off his feet, and the woman died and went to Hell.

THE END

archbishop

2009-06-21T06:00:00.004-04:00

According to the bible, to be a Bishop a person must be, "blameless, the husband of one wife, vigilant, sober, just, holy, temperate, not a novice or a striker, be of good behavior, a lover of hospitality, apt to teach, not given to wine, not greedy of filthy lucre, patient, not a brawler, not covetous; He must be an effective ruler of his own house with children who are not unruly but are faithful and under his subjection; He must have a good report, be a steward of God, not self-willed or easily angered, a lover of good men, and always remember the lessons he's learned..." I don't think I qualify.

Several years ago Dad, Mark and I were singing at a big outdoor festival over in western Virginia. I try to drink a lot of water before I go on stage, 'cause singers sweat and spit a lot when they're performing. That usually means though that I start feeling the urge too soon before those last couple of long, long tunes. With no backstage accommodations at this particular venue, that meant a quick dash to the public restrooms as soon as our part of the set was over.

There I am facing the wall wondering if twelve ounces will be sufficient next time. A man standing next to me asks, "What makes you think you're qualified to be a Bishop?" As awkward as it was, I was grateful for the kid behind me asking for the autograph. "Hang on little man. I'll sign your CD when..."

The inquisitive man followed me to the sink, waited for me to wash my hands, watched me write my name on another band's CD, then shadowed me out the door. "What makes you think you're qualified to be a Bishop?"

I'd been to seminary. My ministerial credentials required that I study and know the Old, the New, the history, the apologetics and the validity of the Scriptures. I knew what he was talking about, and even if I didn't the attitude on his face told me he did - or thought he did, and where he was going. He started down the list: "Blameless, just, holy, temperate, patient; not covetous, greedy, self-willed or easily angered." That last one, as it turns out, was becoming the biggie at the moment.

I honestly don't think the guy knew a thing about me. I know he didn't. All he knew was that when the emcee brought us to the stage he called us the Bishops. When the man followed me to the bus and kept pushing the point and asking why I felt Bishop qualified, it was like an invisible wall when I finally turned and confessed that I didn't. I don't qualify, not according to the biblical criterion. But my daddy, Mr. Bishop, his blood, verified by his love, says differently.

So, thanks Dad. Happy Father's Day.

sixteen christian candles

2009-06-20T06:00:00.006-04:00

Sixteen years minus one day ago it was Father's Day 1993. I remember it, at least most of it, very well. In the very early Sunday morning hours the big blue Bishops touring bus drove past the corporate office in Waco and dead-headed to my little house in Ravenna, Kentucky. That's where Debra and my mom were waiting with suitcases sitting at the door. Before the bus even stopped moving I was out the door, down the walk, onto the porch and into the house. Without even a greeting, I grabbed the bags and the wife and together we made a dash for the hospital. My boy was on his way!

Several weeks before this day the doctor had informed us that our family was going to be blessed with a little man-child. This would round our little home out perfectly since our baby girl, Casie, was already settled in. A girl for every boy in the house seemed fair. Since we'd gotten word that a he-name was necessary, Debra and I went to work trying to decide on what to call him. I'd always liked the name Nicholas, and Debra ended up liking it too. It was settled.

A few months before the big birthday (literally), the Bishops were working on a new record. As was the custom, each member of our group jotted a few lines of thanks and kudos to include in the liner notes. Knowing that the record would not hit the shelves until after my boy was several months into his eating, sleeping and pooping routine, I mentioned what wonderful joy little Nic had brought into my life. I knew his effect even before he was born.

On the day "Nicholas" arrived in the flesh Debra and I changed our minds. Maybe it was because it was Sunday. Maybe it was because I'd recently been reading about Moses and the Hebrew's wilderness adventures and the spies that had been sent to check out the Promised Land and the disappointing report when they returned and all. I became a fan of Joshua and Caleb, two of the twelve undercover agents who'd slipped in and out of the country. They disagreed with the consensus view that the land couldn't be taken. They saw opportunities instead of obstacles. I was inspired by their optimistic view. Besides, to me their names worked well together.

I suggested to Debra that we name our son Joshua Caleb Bishop. She said if we're gonna do Bible, she'd like to use a New and an Old Testament name. I agreed. Within a couple of minutes we decided on the name Christian Caleb Bishop.

BTW, a few years later, after the record with the liner notes was old news, I got a very kind and sympathetic note from a sweet lady who shared with me her story of losing a child. She referred to my mention Nicholas and deduced that since I never spoke of him again that something tragic must have happened. She just wanted to let me know that she understood and knew the pain of our loss. It was a very kind gesture on her part, and I made sure to thank her for it. I didn't explain any further.

When our family was still traveling and singing, I used to tell people that my young and prone-to-break-things-and-lie-about-it son, Christian, was very much like a lot of other Christians I know. And also like them, he should have no doubt that his daddy would love him regardless. It's been going on like that for sixteen years now - and counting. Happy birthday Pal!

217 candles

2009-05-29T06:00:00.001-04:00

I love traveling to exotic and exciting places, but I like to living in a comfortable, cozy place. Home to me is like the song that greets the Derby every spring. It's my old Kentucky home, and this month she's toutin' 217 years of independent living.

On June 1, 1792 the fifteenth United States state was born. Up until then we ran through a bit of an identity crisis trying to settle on a proper name. First we were Cane-tuck-ee, then Cantucky, then Kain-tuck-ee, then Kentuckee and finally Kentucky County, part of Virginia since the end of the Revolutionary War. Daniel Boone was one of the first settlers to get here way back when this part of the country was considered western territory. He's still here to this day, buried on a hillside overlooking the state capitol. Before Dan, the original keepers were the Native Americans; the Shawnees and Cherokees.

Mr. Washington was about half way through his first presidential term when mother Virginia allowed her chick to leave the nest. The nation was still saluting its first flag, but that changed when the fifteenth state got a star AND a stripe. Later on, someone got wise and convinced the flag rule makers that it would probably be a good idea to keep the stripes as originally was (thirteen) and reward each new state with just a star. So Kentucky lost its stripe on Old Glory. We were the last state to get one of our own, even if it was just for a while.

I live in a nifty little place. We don't make the big news a lot, and too much of the world thinks chicken buckets, fast horses and banjos are all we're about. But we've got over two hundred candles on our cake, so I'm thinking we have a few things to be proud of. And I'll be very happy to brag.

1-866-idol-7something

2009-05-14T12:00:00.006-04:00

I'm not addicted to it, but I am truly fascinated by this season's American Idol. Last year I thought little David was the greatest young voice to ever come along. Such control and texture. I still think he's incredible with his voice, I just wish whoever put his last (first) record together didn't.

The '09 version of the show is kinda crazy-cool-weird to me. I've been offering my own running commentary on Twitter and Facebook (be my friend), and I learned very quickly that not everyone agrees. I enjoy the variety of opinions and I appreciate the input, so I hope it continues. I've learned a lot about us in these typed conversations, both in the public postings and the privates.

Music's effect and value, I think, is a matter of taste and fad. Johnny Cash was huge in the sixties, seventies and early eighties. His music was popular and his fans were loud about it. Eventually though his star faded, and just as eventually so did his music. Thirty years later when his story became a movie and stole the tix box it was cool to be a Cash fan again. Johnny's first round of success was about his music and his style. I think the last time was a fad.

I'm guessing back in the day there were a good number of honest but paranoid church folks who thought Johnny was born in Hell. For one thing he was a backslider. He started out singing gospel, but no one bought it. So he cranked up the volume and turned his attention to singing the devil's music in the devil's yard. Who knows, maybe the congregation was right. Johnny certainly had his issues with drugs and stuff, and it more than likely had a lot to do with the distance he'd put between himself and God. He said as much. But I'm betting it wasn't the Christians with the sticks and stones that convinced him to come back to faith.

I was and am a big Johnny Cash fan. I liked his dark persona, his dark clothes and his dark music. A few weeks ago when Adam Lambert took on the Cash classic "Ring of Fire" on American Idol, you better know the stuff and the fan collided. You'd've thought Johnny's grave was falling in. People were screaming. They were passing out. They were breathing into paper bags. How could he?!?!?!

I thought it was awesome.

The genius creativity and delivery and sultriness of the Lambert version of "...Fire" was one of the most alluring and exciting and almost spooky musical things I've heard in quite a while. Right away I was taken past the song he was singing and tuned into what he was doing and how he was doing it. Beyond personal taste, I don't see how anyone who studies and loves the art of melody and music couldn't have been impressed. Another thing that stoked me about the whole drama was Adam's refusal to back down from the traditionalist critics. And personally, I think the man in black would've absolutely loved it - hearing his 1963 song in a new, 2009 way. A lot of his fans may be uptight, but that doesn't mean he was. And you know June would've been all about those royalty checks.

Years ago when my family first started in the music business, our record company was sending our songs to radio stations everywhere and they were getting some air time. There was a good chance that anybody who heard one of them had no idea who we were or what we looked like. One of our first singing trips out of Kentucky took us to a neat little church in Missouri. We pulled up, set our sound, put our one record out to sell, changed our clothes, and walked on the stage. The preacher wanted to know where the lady was. He'd heard her on the radio. He was sure there was a girl in there somewhere. Evidently the church was partial to real singing families with a singing mom, a singing dad and singing kids. Until we pulled into their parking lot that's what they thought we were. Although they liked what they heard on the radio before, we weren't their preference, and no doubt they heard us differently once they knew we were ladyless.

Several years later a promoter in Chicago called our booking agent and scheduled us for an appearance. A couple of weeks later when he received the promotional materials he called back to say there had been a mistake. He wanted a black group, and the song he'd been hearing on the radio gave him the impression that we were black. He told the agent that he enjoyed our sound but he very kindly and graciously expressed that we were just not what his market would pay for. We understood. You can bet that he heard Bishops music differently after that.

What if we didn't know anything about the American Idols? What if we weren't aware of their back stories, their tragedies, or indiscretions? What if we knew nothing about their religious beliefs or where they're from or who they're attracted to or how old they are? What if we didn't know what color their skin was or what their hair or their clothes or their nails look like? What if "American Idol" was a radio show?

Adam has been an Idol lightning rod this season, especially on celebrity and religious web sites. If you follow my Twitter tweets and my Facebook updates you know that I'm a big fan. I'm fascinated by his voice, his control, his pitch, his poise and his placement. To me, the top of his range is incredible. A couple of people have called it screaming, but I know for a fact that they've stood themselves on stages with some of the most popular professional screamers in the biz. So I don't necessarily consider their evaluation as a negative.

I've noticed too that there are a fair number of people who prefer to judge looks instead of talent. Most of them don't like Adam's style. "He looks evil." "Devil worshippers wear black nails and eye liner." "I think he's a bad role model," they say. Regardless of his talent, they've decided he doesn't deserve to be the winner because he'd stick out in their choir.

On the other hand, Danny and Kris actually do fit the robes. I think it's great. Their music started or was cultivated in church. And although they've not made it a point of distinction, they've also not hidden it, especially Danny. I'm proud of them. I'm happy for them. I think they have tremendous talent. But I don't think either of them is the best singer on the show. And I'm not going to cast a dishonest vote just because I like their faith. If the contest is about who is the better Christian, I'm afraid we're not qualified to decide. I'm sure too that if we knew the whole, honest, human and probable sinful side of the eventual winner we'd waste good wood and nails on them.

I've made it a point, when I tweet and Facebook about AI, to offer my thoughts on the performances. It's become routine though when the comments start for the conversation to quickly become a debate on which singer seems most like Jesus. Sometimes the words get ugly. Sometimes the "Christian" commenter comes across as less Christ-like than their unholy target. I also get a lot of private messages. They either express outright anger toward the free-living liberals who'll let any old thing live and prosper, or disgust with the arrogant and righteous who prefer to kill it and bury it before it spreads.

I'm sure that each Idol wannabe is aware that scrutiny and judgement of their personal lives is part of the package. Since the producers have made it more than a talent show by taking us into the homes and worlds of the singers, their pre-Idol life becomes part of the deal. You can bet too when you sign up for the biggest show on television that your "friends" are going to shop around and sell anything they have that has your fingerprint on it, any picture you've posed for (or not), or any film with so much as an appearance by your shadow. Even with my limited brushes with semi-fame, I know the critics, the profiteers and the cynics are aplenty.

So, It doesn't matter to me if Adam loves Eve or Steve. (I've been dying to say that.) If Danny and Kris are believers or atheists, that doesn't raise or lower my critique of their talent. I plan to text my vote for the best performer. If I've committed a sin I trust that Jesus has the remedy. Then again, maybe he and I are rooting for the same guy.

more sensational susan

2009-04-20T10:11:00.005-04:00

Now that most of the world, at least the parts with Internet, has heard Susan Boyle do her remarkable thing, the press has done what it does and tried to dig deep enough to find something that would make us feel duped, then hate her. What they found though was more wow.

Evidently, several years ago, an aspiring, single, virgin Susan spent all her savings on a two song recording. She said she didn't have enough money to make a lot of copies, so she gave just a few close friends and neighbors an opportunity to discover her before the rest of us. They obviously dropped the ball, and evidently so did some other deaf talent scouts across the pond. The rejection letters arrived soon after she mailed her demo. Not being mean, but knowing how the entertainment world thinks, they prolly looked at her pub-shot and tossed the tape.

If you want to read about it go here.

i'd read that book

2009-04-14T12:00:00.007-04:00

I am a big, big fan of the theater, especially musical theater. I've lived the life of a professional singer. For a lot of years I did my thing in the very controlled environment of the studio, and in some of the most unpredictable stage environments you could imagine. I used to tell people, the real talent of a traveling performer is not as much being able to deliver an effective song, but making it work under just about any conditions. But even so, all I had to do was add my part and blend with the guys. No scripted speaking parts or hitting the mark or singing upside down. (Although there are a few Gospel groups out there who can make some really cool steps.)

I did some musical theater when I was in high school. In Oklahoma I was supposed to have a bit part, and did until the night of the opening. Then the guy playing Judge Andrew Carnes got sick and I was asked to step in and save the show. OK, I exaggerate. But I did memorize the lines and the marks with only about an hour and a half or study time. Then there was The Sound of Music. My original casting was a bit more significant this time. Friedrich was the oldest of the Von Trapp sons, and his part was fairly significant in the musical telling of his family's life. I was dashing in my little sailor scrubs and curtain clothes. I decided to retire from the stage after that. I thought it best to walk away while I was still on top. I've actually been approached about doing some local theater close to home, but I worry about having the time.

There are a slew of actors who've crossed into TV and movies who owe their start to the stage. But it is the legends of the theater, names like Carol Channing and Mary Martin and Patti Lupone that still give me chills to this day.

Another name that could be added to that legend's list is Elaine Page. She's more famous in the old country than she is here. There she is considered the First Lady of British Musical Theatre. Her voice and her interpretations bring her characters alive. She is the model for everyone who wants to do music and the stage right.

Then there is Susan Boyle.

You may be familiar with the TV show America's Got Talent. You may not know that the US version is not the original. That would be Britain's Got Talent. Some familiar faces sit in the English version of the judges chairs. The ever-so-critical Simon Cowell who blurts out painful but honest criticism on American Idol is one of them. Celebrity Apprentice and all around TV show host Piers Morgan is too. Amanda Holden is the pretty one.

About Susan, the frumpy little 47 year old woman from somewhere in Scotland, West Lothian I believe, wants to be a singer. Her hair is sorta unkempt. No performer would wear that dress to the stage. Absent any makeup to speak of, and a walk that looks a bit awkward, it's the perfect scenario for a reality TV show. The producers had to be giddy with this character. She was the perfect goof to make fun of. As a matter of fact, all of the footage of her eating a sandwich and shuffling around and tripping over her words proved that she was there only to be crushed in front of millions of people. And to make it worse, when she was asked who she'd like to emulate, her answer was that remarkable Elaine Page. When she said it some smirked, some rolled their eyes, everyone laughed.

Now, please, please take about 7 minutes and watch this.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

In a remarkable and pleasant way, this book doesn't even resemble its cover.

43

2009-04-08T12:00:00.010-04:00

I was born on a Friday 15,706 days ago. I've lived 516 months or 2,243 weeks or 376,944 hours or 22,616,640 minutes or 1,356,998,400 seconds from the moment of my birth to exactly 43 years later. And I still can't hold my breath any longer than 90 seconds. If I were a dog I'd be 185 years old. (using the old conventional wisdom of dog/human years I'd be 301.) I don't know how old I'd be if I was a cat, or an elephant or llama or cock roach. I've always wondered how otter years work.

I was born the Zodiac year of the horse in a small Kentucky town in a rural Catholic hospital. That's back when it was run by nuns in their full nun garb. I don't remember a thing about that day, but I do remember being back there when my little brother was born. Those sisters were bitter. It was a mission work that served lots and lots of families in the hills and hollows of the area. We lived in Richmond, which really wasn't a hill or a hollow, but it was only a half hour or so away and Mom liked the care she got from the sisterhood. So my very first breath was Catholic air.

On that day Lyndon Johnson lived in the White House. He was a Democrat. Ned Breathitt was my governor. He was a Democrat too.

The big international news on the day I was born was about Buddhists in South Vietnam protesting that the new government hadn't set a date for free elections. I'll bet Walter Cronkite didn't break in for that one.

1966 and MCMLXVI are one in the same. A lot happened that year.

Adam West was Batman. Star Trek started. So did Hollywood Squares, The Monkees and Mission Impossible. The Sound of Music was hitting big.

Man of La Mancha owned Broadway and the Tonys.

Frank Sinatra, Paul McCartney, the Mamas and the Papas, Ray Charles and Porter Wagoner racked up at the Grammys. Two days after I was born Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Scofield were crowned queen and king of the Oscars. The blowout movies were A Man For All Seasons and Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

My team, the Kentucky Wildcats, faced Texas Western for the NCAA basketball title in College Park, Maryland. UK Coach Adolph Rupp started five white guys. TX Western's Don Haskins started five black guys. The Miners beat the Cats by seven points. Sad for us UK fans, but great for African American athletes since the upset motivated colleges to start more aggressively recruiting racial minorities.

Depending on who you ask, Notre Dame was the school to beat on the football field. Baltimore was the World Series champ, Boston took the NBA, and Green Bay won the Super Bowl. (Vince Lombardi's third straight win!) Kauai King wore the Derby roses.

There were lots of famous people born in 1966. People like Patrick Dempsey, Cindy Crawford, Stephen Baldwin, Darius Rucker (Hootie & the Blowfish), Janet Jackson, Mike Tyson, Matthew Fox, Martina McBride, Halle Berry, Lee Ann Womack, Tim Hardaway, Adam Sandler, Curt Schilling, Troy Aikman, Sinead O'Conner, Kiefer Sutherland and Crazy Legs the Puerto Rican breakdancer.

Walt Disney died. (but Mickey lives!!) George Harrison and Patty Boyd tied the knot. Cassius Clay became Muhammad Ali and a Muslim. That evil Daylight Saving Time was instituted. That evil church of Satan was formed. The St. Louis Arch was opened. The National Organization for Women was founded. Ronald Reagan became CA governor. John Lennon says he's more famous than Jesus, then says he's not. The US Dept. of Transportation started up. The Grinch stole Christmas. Kwanzaa kicked off. The FDA said yes to the "Pill". (Not to be confused with the little blue one men take these days. The two do completely different things.) The Pope released Catholics to eat meat... except on Fridays. (I heard that somewhere.)

The US was $328.5 billion in the hole. A nickle would send a letter to any of the 196,560,338 documented peeps in the US. Out of every hundred workers, four and a half were jobless. $23,300 would get you a new house. A gallon of milk (.99) cost more than a gallon of gas (.32). If you had sixty cents you could own a dozen eggs.

In: mini skirts, bell bottoms, haircuts that didn't look like haircuts (men only), black power, Captain Kangaroo, flower children, the Temptations, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Cher (timeless!), astrology, the Vietnam War, anything Batman, LSD (same as anything Batman), the draft, The Beverly Hillbillies, Ouiji boards, hippies, party lines, the space race, Red Skelton, Lucy, Dick Van Dyke, the Smothers Brothers, Yogi Bear and Martin Luther King. Oh yeah, and Jerry Lewis started his Labor Day telethons.

Not yet: Cable TV, cell phones (or cordless for that matter), microwaves, The Internet, computers to get to the Internet, hybrid cars, rap music, cruise control, American Idol, MRIs, face transplants, CDs, FedEx, global warming, about 80 million new people, VHS or DVDs or HD or Tivo or DVR or home satellite dishes, body wash, digital clocks, Hannah Montana, smart cars, those tube things that suck the money holder things at the drive-thru at the bank, GPS, the "Moral Majority", text messaging, Fonzie, JJ Walker, George Foreman grills, karaoke, plastic shopping bags, Google, a black president...

mark 9:38-40

2009-04-07T06:00:00.004-04:00

John: Jesus! Jesus! You would've been proud of us. We saw this strange guy using your words to do miracles and round up converts. No worry though, we put a stop to it.

Jesus: Whadya stop him for?

John: He’s not one of us.

Jesus: But he’s not against us.

John: But he’s not one of us. He doesn’t look like us. He doesn’t talk like us. He doesn’t act like us.

Jesus: Is he supposed to?

John: Come on, Jesus. We don’t know anything about him. We don’t even know where he’s from. He might be preaching the wrong stuff. He might be using you just to make money. He might give you a bad rep. We’re already having it hard with the religious police.

Jesus: I’m not led by the legal opinions and hypocrisy of shallow spirits. They don’t get my stuff anyway.

John: We have to set some sort of rules. We can’t just let anybody get up and spout your name.

Jesus: Why not?

John: It’s bad for business. It confuses people. It just looks bad.

Jesus: Whatever made you think this was a business?

John: You know what I mean. He’s not in our group.

Jesus: That’s not for you to decide.

John: There has to be a standard.

Jesus: John, here’s the way I see it. I don’t care what your skin, your hair or your clothes look like. I don’t care how you talk, where you’re from, how important you are or if you’ve got talent. Famous people, common people, people big and small, bold and shy, jailed and free, old and young, I don’t care. I don’t care who you love, as long as you love me. I don’t care if a chauffeur gets you here or you ride the bus. Jeans, shorts, a suit and tie don’t even figure in. Doctors and drop outs fit in just fine. Believe me, in a few years there’ll be a million different pods of people getting together every week sure that they’ve figured all this stuff out. Most of them though will only accept a seat next to a look alike. Every one of them will be wrong about something. But I’m not concerned with their mistakes as long as they believe in me. As a matter of fact, the way I see it, whoever is not against us is for us.

fisching

2009-03-31T12:00:00.000-04:00

I've been a fan of John Fischer for a long time now. He sings and writes and composes and thinks out loud, all in profound ways. John sends out an email every morning that seems to say the thing I need to hear. Sometimes it tickles, sometimes is pinches. Sometimes it just nudges. If you get the chance, go to www.fischtank.com and sign up for the "Catch of the Day."

This poem was in John's catch today. He's not sure who wrote it, so he doesn't attribute it to anyone in particular. I'll thank him for sharing it.

I was shocked, confused, bewildered
As I entered Heaven's door,
Not by the beauty of it all,
Nor the lights, or its decor.

But it was the folks in Heaven
Who made me sputter and gasp--
The thieves, the liars, the sinners,
The alcoholics, and the trash.

There stood the kid from seventh grade
Who swiped my lunch money twice.
Next to him was my old neighbor
Who never said anything nice.

Herb, who I always thought
Was rotting away in hell,
Was sitting pretty on cloud nine,
Looking incredibly well.

I nudged Jesus, 'What's the deal?
I would love to hear Your take.
How'd all these sinners get up here?
God must've made a mistake.

"And why's everyone so quiet,
So somber - give me a clue."
"Hush, child,' He said, "they're all in shock.
No one thought they'd be seeing you."

a.m. drive time thinking

2009-03-27T08:00:00.009-04:00

Ok, this black Audi has been promising to turn for about five miles now.

Yay! Adam Lambert is still alive on Idol!! If I could sing like that... If I could move like that...

I'm surprised that anybody is surprised to learn their political peeps are accepting cash from the bailout beneficiaries.

Note to self: buy more bananas... and apples... and grapes... and toothpaste... and batteries. Ok, I'd better leave myself a voicemail. What else do I need?

I've gotta get back to my workout tonight, but I'm still so stiff and sore from the last one. I will workout. I WILL workout. I WILL WORKOUT. (to myself)

DUDE! IF YOU'RE GONNA DRIVE IN THE FAST LANE, DRIVE FAST!!!!

I'm so embarrassed... Did I just scream that out loud?

hummmmmm..... la la la la...... One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight! Schlemiel, Schlimazel, Hasenpfeffer Incorporated... (in my head)

Why were those crazy girls skipping down the street - in the rain? Why were they singing Yiddish? (out loud)

Michael crawling across the Dunder Mifflin floor was hilarious!

Ok, people are staring. Prolly wondering why I'm laughing. That Michael!

Note to self: see if "The Office" tweets.

TURN ALREADY!!!

Did I take my vitamin?

The gym tonight... YOU can do it. You CAN do it. You can DO IT. (to myself)

They're asking WHAT for Jonas Brothers tickets? (to no one in particular)

Poor North Dakota. God, you know their stuff. Please provide for them. Thanks a bunch.

I shoulda done the bathroom thing before I left the house.

Guess I'll find out if I took my vitamin when I get to work.

It looks like the Dems are at liberty to speed across I-64 now. Two years ago it was the Repubs. The bumper stickers give it away. Guess who's governor now.

Oh man! I meant to call Christian before he got to school this morning.

I need a truck load of mulch.

Wish I had a truck.

Did I bring my gym shoes?

Whoa! What's that smell???

Yeah, gym shoes in the back.

Why won't this window go down?

Note to self: pay electric bill.

Note to self: make dentist appointment. aaaagggghhhhh...

I think I want to see Altar Boyz when I get to the city.

His tags are expired.

Does anybody think the university is going to fire Billy G. 'til the big tourney is over?

Did I feed the dog?

Why is every comment on the newspaper's web site so cynical and angry?

Oh man! This is casual day...

Is Greg's party tonight or tomorrow night?

I wish everyone had this Isaacs music. Wish I could sing and write like that.

She shouldn't be texting and driving.

Gotta cut back on some things. Think I'll let the Singing News and Met Home subs expire.

Lord, help Billie get a job. Thanks a bunch.

No. That doesn't smell like gym shoes...

ring... ring... Uh, should I take his call or not? I'm heading into a dead spot. I'll call him later.

Note to self: call Jeff later.

Note to self: text Jeff to let him know you'll call him later.

Ooh. I've not done MySpace in a long time. Bet my stuff is stacked to the cyber ceiling.

Wish I had some Advil.

Wish Starbucks had a key-fob card thingy.

I really, really wish I had time to stop at that rest area.

Which side of the fence is that cow on?

Wonder if anybody's found a way to make my Twitter updates be Facebook and Myspace updates too? That would be so cool.

Note to self: google the twitter thing.

Did I call Owen back?

Was that my exit?

for real

2009-03-24T06:00:00.017-04:00

I'm perfect. Except for the unhealthy habits, I'm perfect. Well, there is the mood thing and my tendency to watch too much TV. But other than that, I'm perfect. Oh, and I've told a little white lie or two, and didn't return the too-much-change the cashier gave me. But for the sake of credibility I'm still perfect. I have yet to pay my pledge to Jerry's kids. If you don't count my oft spiritual laziness or that I've been known to wear a pair of socks for two, maybe three days; ignoring the sudden words when I stumped my toe, and disregarding the three minutes I parked in the handicapped spot, forgetting about the despicable thoughts I enjoyed when I saw THAT person and the delicious ones when that one strolled by... If you'll turn your head please, I'd like to "share" with someone. Still, it's important for you to know that I'm perfect.

Several weeks ago I was singing in Arkansas. Not to be a rebel or anything, I usually don't do the coat and tie thing when I perform these days - unless the occasion calls for it of course. This was an occasion. Black suit (slimming) with a white shirt, black belt, shoes, socks and tie. I spent lots of time and worked very hard to put on my performing perfection, and I looked dapper, not so much as piece of lint. No one would've known there was a flaw had I not confessed. It was well hidden, and could've been a secret for my grave, except I admitted it.

For a lot of years, when I depended on the crowds to feed me and my family, I chose my admissions. People don't buy tickets to funerals, interventions, confessions or pity parties. Besides, this was good news music we were putting out there; happy, sin-stopping stuff. If we're singing the Gospel we have to display it properly. We have to put it on and wear it like a model on a runway - perfect body, perfect fit, perfect walk. Who would believe us if we didn't look the perfect part? Our public won't allow us to sell the solution to sin if they think we're vulnerable to it. We're not qualified to point the way to a good and holy life if we don't at least appear to have attained it, and completely. Honestly though, even doctors get sick.

I may disappoint some folks here, and may even lose a few friends, but I wasn't then, and I'm not now the super spiritual man of God I appeared to be. Not that I didn't and don't love, seek and study Him. I do. But I'll confess to you just as I did to the folks in Arkansas: My hair was styled. My suit was pressed. My tie was straight. My shirt was starched. But inside my shiny leather shoe, where you couldn't see it and a professional would be forced to hide it, was a hole. My sock had a hole in it. Had I taken off my shoe you could've seen it, but the whole look would've been ruined. People don't admire and often disregard the better parts when they can see the flaw. And that's too bad, 'cause we have a lot of not-so-perfect people out there singing and preaching it who, for the sake of success, can't admit it. They dare not take off their shoes. Politicians too.

I'm not all bad, but I'll tell you that my list up top is pretty abbreviated. Sometimes I'm selfish. I drink too much coffee and don't always eat right. I cheat on the treadmill when my trainer isn't looking. This past Sunday I cut off an old guy who was moving way too slow. I ran a red light just yesterday and I ate a grape long after I dropped it. You can ask, but I don't plan to get much more personal than that. Except to say that sometimes I lie when people ask me how old I am.

the original

2009-03-23T06:00:00.009-04:00

George was a happy man. I'm not sold on the reincarnation thing, but I've heard so many stories about my grandpa and his antics, and everyone I know who knew him well tells me that I must've taken up his mantle. I do feel an especially close kinship to the one grandparent I never knew. There were times in my younger life when I'd do something ridiculously zany, and really should've gotten at least a good scolding out of it, but Dad or someone who had known Grandpa would say, "That's exactly what Happy would do." My grandpa's nick was Happy. That tells you a lot right there. His tombstone even says it: George "Happy" Bishop 1905-1964.

I had the chance to spend a good part of the day with my parents this past Saturday. I always enjoy being with them, and it's even nicer when I have them all to myself. It's fun when the whole family is around, but talk-time with the folks isn't as personal or deep when lots of voices are chiming in. I get to ask questions when it's just me and them, questions I wouldn't ask if others were in the room. We got out the old photo albums and walked backwards for a while.

My dad grew up poor. I found an old picture of the whole Bishop clan when most of them were young. They were standing in front of an old car, all of them looking angry or disinterested, except Happy of course. They weren't dirty, but they weren't dressed for a party either. There were eight mouths to feed when there was no company in the house, and for a meat-and-potatoes family, that meant lots of starch-only meals. Dad told me of walking past the cafeteria when he was a kid and watching the other kids eat. Catching aromas and glimpses was about all he could afford. I get hungry about thirty minutes after breakfast. I don't know how managed.

Although Grandpa Bishop was a hard worker, the need to help make ends meet made it necessary for Dad to drop out of school. Later though, when he met his love, he decided he was going to make a better home for her. He found he had a chance to do something about his lot in life, so he did it. He went to a technical school and learned a trade. Kenneth and Shirley got married, started a family, and created a loving, stable, responsible environment that fostered singing and playing, enouraged ingenuity and prayer.

I wish I'd been able to meet my Grandpa Bishop. To this day I hear from folks who tell me what a character he was. I'm right proud to have inherited his personality. Dad can be funny too, he's just not very loud about it. One thing he is though is consistent. I have lots of traits that I'd gladly trade for some of his gentleness and spirit. I don't want to take it from him though, too many people rely on him. They have been for sixty-five years now, as of today. Happy b'day Dad!

for pat's sake!

2009-03-17T23:59:00.013-04:00

I'm all about a parade. Besides Mom's turkey with stuffing, sweet potato casserole and jam cake, my favorite part of T'day is the parade(s) - the cool floats and big balloons, the singers lip-syncing in front of Macy's and Santa Baby bringing up Christmas at the end. That's a sweet part of life that I look forward to every November.

I don't remember as a kid waking up on St. Patrick's Day anxious about a parade. Maybe I had no clue there was such a thing. Maybe I was ignorant to how significant the day was for some folks. Besides, what did short, green men with red beards - Leprechauns or Martians or something - bring that Santa didn't? Like Jesus, at least the big, jolly man is an American. (uh...) Their little outfits are kinda tart though. Love the shoes!!

There's even a little bit of a fight going on about which city actually put on the first Irish pride parade. New York says they did it. Boston says theirs was not only the first one in the U.S., it was the first one in the world! Somebody in Ireland oughta check that out. Seems like a smack down to me. From what I saw in Lexington tonight I don't think we have a dog in that fight.

I didn't realize how many Irish pubs and hangouts there are in my town until I saw all the pods of people clustered on the sidewalks. Downtown, just across the street from the big courthouses is Molly Brookes Irish Bar. Molly's is one of the city's favs, and getting in tonight would've been a task. Sorta like the day after Christmas at Kmart.

I'm told I have some Irish blood in me from my mom's mom's side. Looking back, I can see it. For some reason though, cultural allegiance was never reinforced in me as a kid. That's prolly because I have such a mutt-mix thing going on, and it could be why I walked past Molly's earlier tonight. A Taste of Thai is just around the corner and that was my mood. I don't think I have an Asian branch on my tree, but I wouldn't be upset (or surprised) to learn I did. I think Kwanzaa is cool too. More questions...

We wanted a seat outside, but it didn't happen. A table in the front window was perfect though for looking at people. I love people watching, and sitting inside meant we weren't being stared at by the people sitting inside who stare at the people who are outside. I don't like being stared at. I'm a hypocrite that way. The weather was gorgeous, so there were lots of characters out and about. Most everyone who passed our way was doing green in some form. Green shirts, green shorts, green hats, green hair, green faces, green beer, green lips (yep), green shoes. I was greenless. I felt ashamed that I'd snubbed the holiday, although not on purpose. My friends and I weren't trying, but it was hard to ignore the occasion.

Then, off in the distance, we heard the sound of all St. Paddy sounds. Did I mention I love a parade? I had no idea our city held a St. Patrick's Day parade. I didn't notice any streets blocked off or super-large crowds gathering on Main Street. That's usually where we hold parades. Our little table in the Lexington branch of the Thailand embassy was in a good spot to take it in. So, as the strains of "My Old Kentucky Home" got gradually louder, I got a little anxious. A surprise parade!! (BTW, evidently there's one note in our state song that bagpipes aren't equipped to make.)

I noticed lots of people from Molly's and some of the other restaurants and bars moving toward the street. About 22 seconds later they all went back. That was it!? About two dozen people in pretty kilts, hats and boots, a few on the pipes, a couple twirling batons and a handful of drums. No wonder I didn't see any TV coverage.

I admire the guys in the band. Although they should be proud of what they do, I'm sure it's not always easy to inject into a conversation, "I play the bagpipes," much less march down Main Street Kentucky in last century's Irish fashion and be the only band/float/horse/firetruck in the parade. There wasn't even a police escort.

Spring rolls done, bill paid, me and my friends strolled on down the street to catch up on the celebration with Irish coffee and deep-dish cookies. A Catholic, European holiday in a South-Midwestern city is a good enough reason to indulge.

a resolution

2009-03-14T06:00:00.002-04:00

On March 13, 2009 the Senate of the Commonwealth of Kentucky unanimously passed Senate Resolution 156. It reads as follows:

A RESOLUTION memorializing Angela Sue Cox and adjourning the Senate in her loving memory and honor.

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox was a native daughter of the Commonwealth of Kentucky, raised in Hindman in Knott County; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox knew the value of a good education and was a tenacious student attending Bethel Christian Academy, Alice Lloyd College, and the University of Kentucky; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox dedicated her career to public service working for United States Congressman Ernie Fletcher handling myriad and diverse concerns on all topics from the thousands of constituents he represented. She took this task very seriously working each concern, simple and complex alike, with precision, earnestness, and dedication; and

WHEREAS, proving herself an able assistant to Congressman Fletcher, Angela Sue Cox continued her services to the citizens of the Commonwealth under the administration of Governor Ernie Fletcher, again addressing concerns of the citizens of the Commonwealth; and

WHEREAS, realizing her value to his administration, Governor Fletcher invested even more responsibility and trust in her efforts and capabilities and appointed Angela Sue Cox the Director of Scheduling for his office -- a position which demanded the utmost organization, diplomacy, intelligence, and commitment; and

WHEREAS, in the position of Director of Scheduling, Angela Sue Cox proved herself worthy of Governor Fletcher's trust, as she worked with the State Police in ensuring the security and well-being of the Governor, and with the National Guard in ensuring that the Governor arrived safely in his many travels within and without the bounds of the Commonwealth; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox was known for her beautiful, sonorous voice whether she was singing to open one of the many official events she was asked to grace with her voice, or was praising God; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox not only dedicated her life to public service, she dedicated herself to God and was a faithful attendee of the Bethel Harvest Church in Lexington, Kentucky; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox was loved and respected by her many friends and family, to whom she was ever constant and generous with her own love, respect, time, and gifts; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox was the loving and beloved daughter of Jesse Cox and Peggy Cox; the loving and beloved sister of Marcia Stamper and Beth Ann Cox; and the loving and beloved aunt of Curtis Cox and James Darby Stamper; and

WHEREAS, Angela Sue Cox was the loving and beloved stepdaughter of Treba Cox; and

WHEREAS, on March 10, 2009, Angela Sue Cox began her Heavenly sojourn, her kindness, love, and angelic voice a perfect fit for her Heavenly home;

NOW, THEREFORE,

Be it resolved by the Senate of the General Assembly of the Commonwealth of Kentucky:

The Senate does hereby express its most profound sense of sorrow and proffers its sincerest condolences to the family and friends of Angela Sue Cox on the event of her passing.

The Senate affirms that in her time on this Earth, Angela Sue Cox's good works have benefited the citizens within and without the border of the Commonwealth of Kentucky. The Senate furthermore affirms that Angela Sue Cox's good humor, kindness, gracious spirit, and generosity will resonate, as did her beautiful voice, in the hearts and minds of her friends, family, and others fortunate to have made her acquaintance, for many years to come.

When the Senate adjourns this day, it does so in loving memory and honor of Angela Sue Cox.

angelic angela

2009-03-13T12:00:00.011-04:00

I'd never been in my congressman's office before. I was a little nervous, although I learned about ten seconds inside the door that I had no real reason to be. The young lady at the front desk was pleasant and welcoming. Everyone I encountered was warm. I was being introduced as a new colleague, the timid new guy. Then I met Angela.

"Oh my goodness!" she said. "I know you. I have your music. I love your music. You're Kenny Bishop!" From then until our last conversation much of our talk centered around our mutual love of Gospel music. Whenever she heard a new song or discovered a new artist I'd usually get a call right away. When she became a new fan, she became a fanatic. As much as she crushed on the music and the music maker, her love was more for the Gospel than anything else.

Every constituent of Congressman Ernie Fletcher who was able to secure Angela's help for their concern was fortunate indeed. The calls that come into an elected officials office are often emotional, sometimes angry, and occasionally desperate. People don't tend to call their congressman as a first resort. Angela dealt with every case as though her own mother were on the other end. She took them personally and sacredly. If the resolution wasn't as good as hoped, she often commiserated, sometimes with tears.

Angela was the unofficial-official singer in the Sixth Congressional District office. When an event with the congressman required a voice and a song, she was the go-to girl. That particular district is one of the more historic ones in the nation. When a book was released detailing the history of the "Henry Clay District," Angela had the distinct honor of singing "The National Anthem" at the release ceremony in Mr. Clay's own back yard. I was there that day and smiled for her, even though I was a little envious. She knocked us out with her amazing rendition.

When the congressman became the governor Angela went to the state capitol. She continued to field calls from constituents for a while, a job that requires thick skin and lots of patience. As difficult as that work was, she really stepped into it when she transferred to the main desk in the governor's scheduling and travel office. There are very likely few more high-pressure government positions than that of the governor's chief scheduler. The demands, threats and subterfuge are loud and clear every day. The intense requirement of intricate detail is a constant dynamic that changes by the minute. The governor's safety and efficiency is always the top consideration. When so many others would be wringing hands and pulling hair, Angela was singing. With incredible grace, she smiled and she sang.

Ever since I met her we said we were going to sing together one day. Lots of days came and went before we finally had the opportunity. It was at the Governor's Mansion, and the occasion was Christmas when we stood at the piano and worked our voices together. The texture and the harmony were sweet and complimentary. I don't know if we got the words right, but we made a moment. I don't remember who else was in the room, but I know Angela was. You always knew when Angela was in the room.

Several weeks ago I was at a party when I got the call that Angela's house had caught fire, and thanks to a brave man who learned she was trapped, she was pulled from the smoke and flames. The local news covered the story, and as far as the world knew Angela was a survivor on her way to recovery. Those of us who were closer though learned through constant updates that her injuries were more serious, many of her treatments were not working and the infections were increasingly uncontrollable. Some days brought good news and we smiled. Other times we worried. We prayed hard for Angela's healing and just as hard for her family's strength.

A few weeks ago I had a chance to stop in to see Angela. The hour was late and the attendant was kind, but getting back to her room was not possible. I wanted to see her mother too, but she had left for the day. She'd been staying at her daughter's side for weeks, and certainly needed to rest. Peggy is another beautiful lady who was generous in passing her hearty laugh and gentle spirit on to her daughter.

This past Tuesday we all got the call that we dreaded but began to expect. It had been since before the fire that Angela was able to use her voice. At about a second past 6:15 PM she sang again.

a swell place in africa

2009-03-10T23:00:00.010-04:00

Go ahead, ask me about Swaziland. I'm prepared. I know more about the people, the government and the culture of the tiny south African nation than I imagined I would this time last month. Know where it is? Neither did I. Get your map out and find Africa, the continent. Go south to the big country of South Africa, then look for what might be confused as a lake in the northeast edge. There it is, a small, land-locked nation tucked right up against the southwestern tip of Mozambique.

One of the really great things about my job at the state capitol is preparing for and hosting dignitaries and other VIPs when they visit with us. A few weeks ago it was parliamentarians from Croatia. This week we had a blast entertaining and hanging with several big time officials from the Kingdom of Swaziland. I have to tell you, I sorta got attached to them.

Nearly every foreign delegation that visits us here is escorted by a member of the US State Department. This gives us an opportunity to gauge our hosting skills against some of the other states that participate. We want to do things right, and we certainly want our guests to go back to their parts of the world saying Kentucky was one of their favs. We hear often that we do a good job with the southern hospitality.

As old, old, old as it is, Swaziland has only been independent of Great Britain since 1968, and is ruled by a king. He rules it too. He picks the prime minister, many of the members of the parliament and all of the judges in the courts. The rest of the legislature is made up of elected members. One thing that's cool about the Swazi government is the requirement that thirty percent of their delegates be women. Way to go Swazigirl!

Swazi life is pretty much what we'd expect. It's arid and warm there, often hot. Agriculture is mostly for self-subsistence, although the farmers there do export a fair amount of sugar cane to South Africa. Tribal customs and traditions are strong among the mostly native population, and Christianity, both Protestant and Roman Catholic, is the most practiced religion. Islam, Bahaia and Hinduism are present but not as popular.

Like most other African nations, the Swazi people are a mixture of modern society and traditional customs. Although their contemporary might seem a little outdated to us (not bad out of date though since we're already exchanging emails), their documented ancient goes father back than we North Americans can claim. Beyond all of the research and text book stuff, if the men and women I met are par for the course of the other million or so who live in Swaziland, I think it's a swell place to be.

why i'm sleepy

2009-03-08T09:00:00.008-04:00

OK, this time thing - standard, daylight, summer (in the British vernacular), Eastern, Pacific, Greenwich... - is out of control. Just like everything else the governments of the world try to manage, the hours of our day have been taken over by "experts" and now the rest of us are confused - and sleepy. Here are my thoughts:

The inventor of Daylight saving time was a guy named William Willet, a builder in the United Kingdom. Yep, not a scientist or an astrologist or a physicist or even a clock-maker. He was a builder, but obviously one with lots of money and more than a few key connections. This one man who wanted more time to play in the sun made it his task to change the rules for all of us. Can you get much more selfish than that? BTW, some folks think DST was Benjamin Franklin's idea. Actually, BJ's solution to making candles last longer was getting up when the sun did and hitting the sack when it got dark. Good ol' American ingenuity.

A good piece of the world has decided that playing with the clock a couple of times each year just isn't necessary. Some folks even say it's unhealthy. Regardless of why, those of us nations who are reluctant to change the tick-tock tradition much more than moving it back or forth a few weeks should give it a little more serious consideration. Let's call it preventive health care. Maybe the insurance companies should hire lobbyists to address the matter.

There are others who claim that abandoning Standard time in the spring is good for the pocketbook. Merchants sell more they say. Ball games and outdoor activities thrive, and we don't use as much electricity. Farmers disagree on the help/hurt of it all, but the police say it cuts back on thieves who work dirty in the dark. That being said, I have friends who take full advantage of the switch back when last call is announced once, rescinded, then again an hour later.

Maybe shifting the clock around is a good thing overall, but for me it's just a bit annoying. I feel cheated the morning after the change, even though I slept through the sequence of events. Which causes me to question why I'm so sleepy. And if one man can mess it up, (BTW, Mr. Willett didn't live to adjust his watch.) maybe I'm the man to fix it.

ken 'n shirl

2009-03-05T12:00:00.003-05:00

I'll bet the young Kenneth Bishop and the younger Shirley Richardson had no idea back in 1964 that life would be so excitingly dull and slow in a fast-paced sort of way. I've not asked them what their dreams or aspirations were when they agreed to marry and stick together, but their upbringing made for tempered goals I'm sure. It certainly affected their modest wedding. They got married at the preacher's house. I hear they had to shush the kids more than a few times (those PKs!!), and if there was rice it was probably on the stove.

Dad and Mom have done well for themselves. They live comfortably and in fairly good health. Their kids and grand kids know how to get to their house, and other than an occasional ice storm or church incident, things are working well. I'm proud of my folks. They're models of temperance and honesty. They have what they do because they've worked for it - Dad outside of the home, and Mom holding down the fort.

They'll quietly celebrate their anniversary today. No big deal, no cake or streamers. That's just who they are, and I love 'em for it.

my mother's day

2009-03-02T06:00:00.009-05:00

Mom probably won't do much celebrating today. Not because she's unhappy or angry, but just because she doesn't usually make much of a deal out of her birthday. Never has that I recall.

She may think it much-ado-about-nothing, but March 2, 19?? (I don't pick unnecessary fights) is a most special day in my life. If that day wasn't she wouldn't be and neither would I. Neither would Theodor Seuss Geisel, and then there'd be no Grinch or Mount Crumpit or Whoville or Whos!! Then Jim Carrey would be stuck in a career with only mediocre movies on his resume'. Thank God for March 2nd!

Shirley Bishop has been a much better mother than Kenny Bishop has been her son. We talk a lot. The phone is our friend. I wish she did email or at least tried texting, but Mom is simple and she enjoys an uncluttered life. If I were to call her right now she'd probably be making coffee for Dad or washing sheets or watching one of my nieces or nephews. Her family gets her up every morning. She lives for us, and plans her stuff around ours.

When me and the bros are fighting, she plays like Woodrow Wilson and stays out of it. Unlike the old POTUS, she really stays out of it - no matter what. She sympathizes, but takes no position.

Call her names, throw rocks in her direction, dig up her tomatoes or refuse her cooking and she'll likely tolerate it. Mess with one of her kids or grandkids and you've picked a fight with someone who can both catch you and beat you up.

Mom is a beautiful Christian woman inside and out. She likes to laugh, knows she's stubborn and reminds me of my mamaw, who was one of the most entertaining women I ever knew, including Carol Burnett. She's not rich, but Mom is most generous. She holds no degree, but I hear lots of wisdom when she speaks. One thing she is though is a super-fantastic-wonderlicious wizard of the kitchen. I wonder if she made a birthday cake?

wednesday's ashes

2009-02-25T06:00:00.005-05:00

Today I will attend the Ash Wednesday service at the Cathedral of the Ascension. It is a beautiful, old church with abundant history, built in 1850. Since it is in Kentucky's capitol city, many of the state's governors and other dignitaries have worshipped there, and the community is richer and prettier because of its presence and outreach.

The service today will be mostly quiet. We'll recite, sing, pray and kneel - mostly in unison. My church upbringing pretty much allowed and encouraged everyone to do their own thing during services as long as it was prompted of the Spirit and not distracting. Sometimes it was definitely not the first and certainly was the second - depending on the worshippers personality. It was what we were used to, so no one but the visitors from other traditions paid much attention.

The songs we'll sing today probably won't be found in the old red-back Church Hymnal that I grew up with. "I'll Fly Away" and "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder" are wonderful, old pieces of music that mean a lot to me. But I'm just as moved by the very classical and majestic songs we'll enjoy inside the beautiful cathedral of stained glass, statued saints and pipe organ today. We will reverently approach the ornate and grand altar to receive the Eucharist and ashes from robed priests moving along the rails in a steady, flowing motion. It is a beautiful and spiritual thing for me. It reminds me that God is large and aware of us.

I got in trouble once and was sorta scolded by a Pentecostal pastor who took issue with my speaking from prepared notes during a revival service. He felt I was not yielded enough to the immediate direction of the Holy Spirit. My response to him was that I was sure the Lord was only obligated to give me the message once, and since no one was around to preach it to then, I wrote it down and saved it for later. The pastor, as sincere as he is, probably would not appreciate a recited prayer such as the one we'll honestly and contemplatively speak to God today from the Book of Common Prayer. When I consider its words seriously, I find it hard not be humbled.

Most holy and merciful Father:
We confess to you and to one another, and to the whole communion of saints in heaven and on earth, that we have sinned by our own fault in thought, word, and deed; by what we have done, and by what we have left undone.

We have not loved you with our whole heart, and mind, and strength. We have not loved our neighbors as ourselves. We have not forgiven others, as we have been forgiven. Have mercy on us, Lord.

We have been deaf to your call to serve, as Christ served us. We have not been true to the mind of Christ. We have grieved your Holy Spirit. Have mercy on us, Lord.

We confess to you, Lord, all our past unfaithfulness: the pride, hypocrisy, and impatience of our lives, We confess to you, Lord.

Our self-indulgent appetites and ways, and our exploitation of other people, We confess to you, Lord.

Our anger at our own frustration, and our envy of those more fortunate than ourselves, We confess to you, Lord.

Our intemperate love of worldly goods and comforts, and our dishonesty in daily life and work, We confess to you, Lord.

Our negligence in prayer and worship, and our failure to commend the faith that is in us, We confess to you, Lord.

Accept our repentance, Lord, for the wrongs we have done: for our blindness to human need and suffering, and our indifference to injustice and cruelty, Accept our repentance, Lord.

For all false judgments, for uncharitable thoughts toward our neighbors, and for our prejudice and contempt toward those who differ from us, Accept our repentance, Lord.

For our waste and pollution of your creation, and our lack of concern for those who come after us, Accept our repentance, Lord.

Restore us, good Lord, and let your anger depart from us; Favorably hear us, for your mercy is great.

Accomplish in us the work of your salvation, That we may show forth your glory in the world.

By the cross and passion of your Son our Lord, Bring us with all your saints to the joy of his resurrection.

Almighty God, the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who desires not the death of sinners, but rather that they may turn from their wickedness and live, has given power and commandment to his ministers to declare and pronounce to his people, being penitent, the absolution and remission of their sins. He pardons and absolves all those who truly repent, and with sincere hearts believe his holy Gospel.

Therefore we beseech him to grant us true repentance and his Holy Spirit, that those things may please him which we do on this day, and that the rest of our life hereafter may be pure and holy, so that at the last we may come to his eternal joy; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen

potuses

2009-02-16T06:00:00.010-05:00

Delaware became state number one in 1787. No other could claim the honor. You'd think such a distinction would mean something when it comes to sending a president to Washington, DC. However, with all of the other claims, the first state has yet to send it's first chief executive to the White House.

Only a handful of states have actually groomed future presidents. New York has produced eight, more than any other. Early on though it looked like Virginia was a breeding ground for the job. Four of the first five presidents came from that commonwealth, and the only one of that group not reelected to a second term was the guy from the other state. Ohio has given us six presidents, then Virginia (5). Massachusetts gave us four, Tennessee, Texas and Illinois brought three each, two have come from out west in California then one each from Louisiana, New Hampshire, Pennsylvania, Indiana, New Jersey, Missouri, Michigan, Georgia and Arkansas.

Not every president was born in the state that claimed them when they U-Hauled it to Pennsylvania Avenue. Even though Illinois gets credit for sending him up, the current POTUS was born in Hawaii, a state that was barely two years old itself when he let out his first baby cry. Besides Mr. Obama, Illinois also calls itself the Land of Lincoln, even though the often polled most popular president was birthed in my home state of Kentucky.

Two other presidents were native Kentuckians. Well, sorta. The only president the Confederate States of America ever swore into office was Jefferson Davis, from Christian County, Kentucky. Because he was their senator, Mississippi mostly lays claim to him. We've never fussed much about it though since our state decided not to join up with the south. (Of course, we didn't officially "join" the North either. Not that you had to.)

Then there was David Rice Atchison. Born just outside of Lexington, Kentucky in 1807, he, like so many others, moved west for fortune and opportunity. It's while he was President pro-tempore of the U.S. Senate, serving the people of Missouri, that he found himself in an odd situation. On Sunday, March 4, 1849 outgoing President James K. Polk's term had expired. His successor, Zachary Taylor, refused to take the oath. "No swearing on the sabbath!" he said. According to the Constitution, since Taylor's VP hadn't been sworn in yet either, that made Atchison the acting president. Know what he did with his presidential day? He slept. All day long he slept, and he dared his housekeeper to wake him. The voters of Missouri should be furious. It was nearly a hundred years before another Show Me man got the job.

OK, full disclosure here. Atchison never really believed or acknowledged that he was the actual President of the United States. Like the president's term, his senate leadership post had already expired too, and neither did he take the presidential oath. Had it been the real deal though, the senator would've been the youngest to ever serve the office at 41 years, six months. He also would've held the record for the shortest term, 24 hours. Officially, Theodore Roosevelt is the youngest to ever have the job (42 years old) and William Henry Harrison only had it for 32 days.

Since today is President's Day, it is entirely fitting, and completely acceptable to offer the honor and extend the appreciation due every man who has held the office. Some of them were prepared, others were obviously not. Some that I thought were fairly good, others rank at the bottom. But while being misunderstood, maligned, mocked, criticized and misinterpreted, they sit in that oval room, hear and see constant worst case scenarios, consider the results and make monumental decisions that affirm or alter life on this planet. I for one appreciate it. Thank you Mr. President. You deserve a day of your own.

david's valentine

2009-02-14T12:00:00.027-05:00

As best I can recall, there were twenty-five or thirty kids in my first grade class. Every single one of us got a card, if you could call it a card. They were actually little cut-outs or sometimes stickers. "Be my valentine." "Be mine!" I guess some of us guys figured it sorta weird to get a card from another guy, but that would've been reading a lot more into it than was intended. The teacher sent a note to all the parents saying every student in the class needed to leave the party with the same number of cards. So every kid gave a little Mickey & Minnie or Bugs or Superman or Incredible Hulk love to every other kid. It worked out just fine for everybody, but especially for David.

I don't remember anyone in my first year at Waco Elementary being exceptional at anything. David was though. He was especially good at annoying Mrs. Yader. He was unaccustomed to rules, and didn't know how to take anything seriously. He didn't see the need to raise his hand or get permission to talk, that is until the teacher made it clear that he'd find trouble in the form of a paddle if he went to the bathroom, spoke out loud or sharpened his pencil without her approval. David cut line a lot, especially at lunch. But you don't protest much when you know the class entertainer is hungry - and why.

The guys in the class sorta saw David as crazy. The girls thought he was scary. He'd do anything for a quarter - not that they were that easy to come by. Out on the playground David had a good business going. It wasn't unusual for someone to fork over their milk money to watch a kid eat a handful of gravel or bite the janitor's dog or dance on the hood of Coach Turner's car. All it took was a quarter, and the sideshow was on. David was the center of attention for a few minutes and usually walked away with at least a dollar in his pocket. As far as we knew, David was happy with the arrangement.

Valentine's Day was early the next week, so party preparations began the week before. We'd all been given an allotment of construction paper, crayons, glue, glitter and supervised access to the stapler. After decorating the front of one sheet, we stapled the bottom and the edges to create a pouch that would collect our classroom love notes. When we arrived at school on the big day everyone's envelope had been taped to the front of their desk. Just before the 2:00 party was to begin we all sat at our desks and sorted the colorful store-bought cards we'd addressed the night before and played like little mailmen. Except David didn't.

While everyone else was scurrying about the room dropping tiny two-by-three envelopes into pouch after pouch, David just sat at his desk and watched. It was unusual for him to be quiet and still while everyone else was noisy and active. He'd either forgotten about the party, or as most of us knew, couldn't afford to participate. Maybe he ate the note he was supposed to take home. If he made a quarter doing it, everyone knew his family could sure use the money. So, for at least a couple of minutes David just watched. Like everyone else, he received his share of cards, and though he didn't seem like the kind of kid who'd be bothered by such a thing, it appeared to sadden him that he couldn't give back.

It's pretty safe to say that David saw Mrs. Yader as his mortal enemy. He was on his second stint in her grade, and he didn't show her any love or any mercy. She made him mind, and he didn't appreciate it. That changed though on February 14, 1972. I can't imagine I'm the only one who noticed, but no one ever mentioned it if they saw what I did. David's nemesis quietly coaches him to her desk where she gives him a small box full of little envelopes, one for every student. He didn't know it was her signature on the inside, or maybe he did and didn't care. He only knew that he was now part of the action again. It looked like David outdid us all that day. His card came with candy attached. That was the day the teacher became David's Valentine.

how do you get on a penny?

2009-02-12T06:00:00.020-05:00

"Happy Birthday" the song was born in Kentucky. So was POTUS number sixteen, and today is his birthday. If he was alive, and wouldn't that be exceptional, Abraham -no middle name- Lincoln would be 200 years old. I've visited his birthplace just outside of Hodgenville, Kentucky, and I've been to his tomb in Springfield, Illinois. Fifty-six years, two months, four days and roughly 375 miles was the distance from his modest cradle to his grand grave.

I really do wonder what thoughts the perpetual student - practical teacher A. Lincoln would have if he were here right now. Being the great debater that he was, I can't imagine he was any slouch of a thinker. Being the always-willing-to-admit-there-may-be-a-better-way kinda man he was, we might be surprised at some of his views on a few things. As much as he didn't concern himself with his popularity, he refused to sign the Emancipation Proclamation with a shaky hand for fear history would think he hesitated. Even with a steady mind, his grip was sometimes weak - something he'd probably admit.

Lincoln was not nearly as popular alive as he is long dead. Even though he always spoke of his birth state with great affection and pride, it was here that he came in dead last in a field of four in the 1860 presidential race (he received 1,364 votes - not even one percent of the total) and didn't get half the votes here that his opponent did four years later.

We've attached ourselves to him now, but about 145 or so years ago this Commonwealth wanted nothing to do with the self-made trouble maker. As a matter of fact, it was other Kentucky-borns who always seemed to be a constant haunt to him throughout his personal and political life. His in-laws, the Todds in Lexington, didn't have much use for him. None of them voted for him. During his first presidential run, one of his opponents was Kentucky Senator and former Vice President John Breckenridge who got over fifty times the Kentucky votes Lincoln did. We all know that Lincoln's nemesis during most of his presidency was Confederate President Jefferson Davis, another native Kentuckian. The two were born within a hundred or so miles and eight months of each other. Nowadays Jefferson stares at the back of Lincoln's head in the rotunda of the Kentucky state capitol. Breckenridge stands in the room about half as tall, as though worshipping at Lincoln's feet.

There has been some debate over whether or not it was Lincoln's personal conviction that blacks should live as free people that motivated his noble actions. Some believe he simply wanted to hold things together, and that's noble enough since the end result was the same. Whatever the reason, today we are a better, much better nation and people because of the risks and decisions he undertook. Some have made him a saint. He'd disagree. History says that although he read his bible, he was barely religious and not much for attending church. To many he was a hero. He might even argue with you there. He knew his plans, and how woefully short he'd fallen in fulfilling them - partly because of Kentucky. To all of us he is an inspirer. He not only emancipated our darker brothers, he gave everyone else permission to accept them and respect them. We were all freed in that regard. To the world he was a visionary, and to a little over four million of us in this state, he's our long lost neighbor and son. And that's how you get on a penny.

"We may differ with him, and have differed with him, but when the judgment of future events has come, we found we were differing blindly; that he was right and we were wrong . . . experience and time have demonstrated that his was the only line of salvation for our country."
-Kentucky Governor Thomas E. Bramlette (1817-1875) shortly after learning of the death of President Lincoln.

“In no ‘northern’ state was he so vilified and hated. But he belonged to us, the people of Kentucky, because no claim shall come before the mother.”
-Historian John Kleber, University of Louisville in 2009

"I too, am a Kentuckian."
-President Abraham Lincoln in 1861

For more information on Abraham Lincoln's Kentucky heritage, life and connections go to http://www.kylincoln.org/.

something you have to see

2009-02-11T12:00:00.003-05:00

Joel Lindsey is one of the worlds great modern song writers. He's good partly because he's a sensitive thinker, and because he lives with his eyes and ears open. That's why I love his musical creations, and why I'm addicted to his blog. You can find the link on this page - just to right of these words. Earlier this month he wrote about a recent personal and emotional experience he had. He did it with openness, dignity and honest but cautious speculation. I was moved by it, and felt a strong urge to pass his story AND his very deep contemplations on to you. Please read.

I first noticed him when we were boarding: the strapping young man, a boy really, in his army uniform, buzz cut, carrying a wooden box wrapped in what looked like Saran-Wrap.

A distinguished older gentleman stepped up to him in the line and asked "Where are you sitting, soldier?"

"28-F, sir," the soldier responded, checking his ticket to make sure.

"I'll trade with you," the older man said, handing him his first class ticket.

"Oh, you don't have to do that."

"It's an honor." The man said, walking away before the soldier could argue.

So we boarded and the soldier was seated one row back from me, on the other side of the aisle. After the cabin doors were closed, the captain's voice came over the speakers:

READ THE REST OF THIS STORY AT http://thistlelane.spaces.live.com/Blog/cns!7CEB3EDC0E898C38!1319.entry.

solutions

2009-02-08T06:00:00.005-05:00

My ideas on how to resolve...

The federal deficit: Have everyone who feels that more taxes is the solution actually pay them. Have all of the celebrities who want the American Janes and Joes to pay up transfer their own fortunes from their foreign safe havens to a US bank so they can join the rest of us at the end of the quarter. Have all of the politicians who've scratched a back at the IRS come clean and settle up. Of course, if President Obama keeps nominating ex government guys and former DC power people to top level posts the issue may fix itself. BTW, how can you change anything when you're surrounded by recycled same-old same-olds?

The Minnesota Senate race: I don't know the normal procedure up there, but hearing about a fresh new bundle of just found, uncounted, now-disputed ballots everyday leads me to believe that either incompetent or industrious vote keepers are the real election deciders in the North Star State. Evidently they just hide votes in drawers, slide 'em under tables, mark 'em like crazy and creatively "discover" the ones they want - depending on the desired outcome. My solution, have a do-over. Have out of state, non-vested, unpartied parties verify every single voter as alive and registered. Check IDs. Some folks don't like having to prove they are entitled to vote, but the office and its responsibilities are important, and I like knowing that both the person giving them the job and the guy that wins the contest are legal and legit. Spring it on us so the manipulators don't have time to maneuver the results. No more commercials or rallies by the candidates. If the people there aren't aware of the applicants and their positions at this point they probably shouldn't weigh in on the decision. As soon as the polls close send the sealed boxes/machines to a place where the counters could care less who Coleman and Franken are. Lately, that would be most anywhere outside of MN and DC.

Global warming (aka climate change): Turn off Al Gore and Rush Limbaugh and Michael Moore and Sean Hannity and Bill Maher and Ann Coulter and all the others who distort the other guy's words and exaggerate his evilness while they anoint themselves as saints and expound tons of hot air. But do it yourself. Don't let the government do it for you.

The Fairness/Censorship Doctrine: See Global Warming.

Demoralization of society: Have every Christian believer get to know their God well and have a clear understanding of who He is before taking on the role of His spokesperson. An accurate display of His affection would go a long way toward making Him more appealing than the harmful stuff.

too much doggone pessimism

2009-02-05T06:00:00.009-05:00

I've always thought I'd hate to be one of those people that others hate to see coming. I don't want to be a downer or a conversation hog or a gossip or a cynic - especially a cynic. These days though, with more news channels than we need, access to truth-mingled-with-rumors online and the opportunity to comment, blog and twitter, it seems that many of us have gotten very comfortable with our cynicism, and expressing it.

At the risk of sounding cynical here, I'm finding myself more and more disappointed in people, average and powerful, all the time. Full disclosure here, I'm often just as aggravated with myself as I am everyone else. So I don't exclude myself when I say, "Get a grip, man and consider the other guy when you spout something supremely arrogant and judgemental. Blogworld anonymity is no license."

When today's news reports that you and I gave hundreds of billions to banks and others, then tomorrow we learn that they remodeled the place and partied with it, we get cynical. When big time executives arrive in private jets then ask for money for private jets - and cars, we get cynical. When private corporate millionaires are bonused handsomely with public bailout dollars, we get cynical. When politicians wag their fingers at the guilty indulgers on their way out the door to a swanky retreat courtesy of us, we get cynical. When we pay our taxes to keep the elected employed, then find out we voted for tax frauds, we get cynical. When a man who is paid to shape a lawmaker's vote seals the deal with dollars and drinks, we get cynical. When the words of the preacher don't match his ways, then he gets caught and says it's not his fault, we get cynical. When all we hear from the big time news is that the economy is spiraling, the earth is warming, the government is corrupt and crime is abounding, we get cynical. If that's all there is to the world we live in today there's no reason we shouldn't be cynical.

Ever hear of Whitaker Bank? Their HQ is right here in Kentucky. I don't know for sure, but even if they've taken a hard economic hit, I don't recall that they jetted to DC and asked for the feds to bail them out. There are hundreds, probably thousands of smaller, more regional banks like Whitaker all across the country. They've chosen to tighten their belts and keep their integrity. Home grown corporate responsibility; That's a good reason to be optimistic.

I had to buy a new car last year. Even though the guy at the lot was the consumate car salesman, I signed the papers 'cause he said he owned the same model. I asked him to show me and sure enough we resemble. A car guy I can trust; That's a good reason to be optimistic.

When the top execs at Goldman Sachs forsook their expected bonuses, and when UBS decided to be extra responsible and put theirs on a living wage as opposed to an indulgent one. I was impressed. Big time corporate responsibility; That's a good reason to be optimistic.

Of the 535 federal legislators who make the laws in Washington, DC, only a tiny handful are in the habit of breaking and abusing them. Those are the ones who make the news. Of the 55 governors who lead our states, the ones in trouble are not the norm. That's a good reason to be optimistic.

Abramoff is not the typical lobbyist. There may be enough seedy ones to create a slight odor, but often it is the professional who bends important ears who serves as the only voice for a crucial or critical cause. Some of my closest and very best friends are lobbyists with a conscience who do their business with integrity and class. You'd appreciate their skills, expertise and knowledge if they spoke on your behalf. Most lobbyists are honest, hard working people. That's a good reason to be optimistic.

How many preachers can you name? Chances are, if you know very many at all they are/were either meaningful to you or you are familiar with their scandal. I have no idea how many ordained ministers there are in the world, nine digits worth at least. Most of them don't fly personal planes, live in scattered mansions, draw crowds in the thousands or sell books by the millions. I congratulate those that do if they do it honestly and give generously. I applaud all the rest for simply doing, sometimes without. They're not all Haggards and Swaggarts. That's a good reason to be optimistic.

Times are tough, but times have been tougher. The globe is in flux but it has been before. Some summers are hotter, some winters are colder. Mr. Gore is a journalist, a politician and a much awarded but amateur environmentalist. His dire messages of doom are based on inconclusive and often disproved science. His accolades come from Hollywood; That's a good reason to be optimistic.

The simple solution, I think, to living more cynic-free is to be informed but not consumed. Turn off the talk and turn on the music. Spend a day without the noise, the arguing and the non-stop depression of CNN, FOX and all the others. Scan the newspaper, but give a good book plenty of time. Even if it's small, enjoy what you do have instead of pining for what you don't.

*When I'm worried and I can't sleep, I count my blessings instead of sheep, and I fall asleep counting my blessings.

When my bankroll is getting small, I think of when I had none at all, then I fall asleep counting my blessings

So, when you're worried and you can't sleep, just count your blessings instead of sheep. Then you'll fall asleep counting your blessings.

*Written by Irving Berlin - performed by Rosemary Clooney & Bing Crosby

random road thoughts

2009-02-03T13:00:00.007-05:00

Out the drive, turn left. At the stop sign, turn right. About a mile to the next one, stop, then straight through. Left at the traffic light, then up Main Street through town. Right onto Newtown, a couple of miles to the interstate. Go west, young man 'til the sign says Frankfort. Right at the end of the ramp, left onto the connector, right just after the bridge then left onto Capitol Avenue. Park it and do the steps to the top floor. It's always a magnificent sight, the capitol dome.

Ever just tune out? It takes me not quite an hour to get from my house to the office. Somewhere around thirty or so traffic lights, a couple of security checks and 111 stair steps (I try not to use the elevator) and I'm there. If someone asked me, I doubt I could tell them much about the trip. I'm a thinker, so most of the time I just zone out and count on habit to get me from A to B. Probably not a good and safe way to do it, but I've arrived alive and mostly ticket free for several years now.

On my mind this morning: More snow! The guy on TV said to look for about three inches of it. I'm afraid of ice. I can handle the snow.

Christian Bale... I guess he feels he is superior enough to talk to one of us mortals that way. I don't encourage you to listen to his latest inhumane tirade against the poor lighting guy. It'll make you angry and you'll hear x-rated words. I'm not sure I ever watched a movie because he was in it anyway. I might avoid one thanks to him though.

I was just glued to the Super Bowl. I wanted the Steelers to win it because my son is a huge Steelers fan. I wanted the Cardinals to win it because Rush is a huge Steelers fan.

I thought candidate Obama said he didn't want lobbyists at the White House desks...

All the unnecessary bells and whistles on AOL's web site annoys me. I wish they had a simpler, less clickity version.

So many "social sites" to keep up with. If I give a lot of time to one am I ignoring the others? If I give equal time to them all I'll never, ever do anything but "socialize." Is there a way to consolidate them?

I'll have a good reason to go to bed early when Conan moves to LA. BTW, did Leno call former President Bush stupid last night? He's starting to sound like the bitter old man that is Letterman.

I like Mike Duncan. He is a friend of mine. I'm excited though about the direction the new chair of the Republican National Committee will go. It's your turn Mr. Steele.

I'm so, so, so, so, so, so grateful to have a job. The scary emails and calls from too many friends out of work won't stop. I feel very blessed.

I hope Angela is doing better today. She's a wonderful Christian friend who nearly died when her house burned down. The doctors say it'll be a long and painful recovery. I pray hard for her and think about her a lot. My uncle Glen needs the prayers too. You know about it, God.

Paying attention to Hollywood news is like eating pretzels and chewing gum at the same time. What's the point?

Paying attention to gospel music blogs is like eating pretzels and chewing gum at the same time. What's the point?

It seems the natural progression of our government that we would go from subsidising crop success to subsidising corporate failure? Can we start all over?

In the bible each town had a church. You know, the church at Philadelphia, the church at Ephesus, the church at Laodicea. Why do we have hundreds and hundreds of them in Lexington? Can't we Christians get along?

Continuing the thought; Of the hundreds of churches within 20 miles of my house (no exaggeration), most of them are usually half or less full for a few hours a day, half of a day a week. That leaves them completely empty for about 28 days every month. If we can't worship together, why don't we at least take turns using the space?

I get reality TV and the news channels mixed up.

Caffeine, I need caffeine.

abbott & costello on american idol

2009-01-30T06:00:00.007-05:00

Remember the famous "Who's On First" comedy routine that Abbott and Costello used to do years ago? If you weren't around back in the 1930s and 40s you probably don't. I've seen video and heard old radio broadcasts of the skit, and to me it's as confusing as it is funny. But it is funny. About 40 years after the big-time comics made it famous, Chris Simonsen and I felt it was time for our generation to get its own kicks out of the back and forth, so we decided to sign up for the Madison Central High School talent show. Honestly, it didn't go so good. Thank God it wasn't a Gong Show. We would've never made it to the next base. (What's on second...)

I like a good talent show. It's fun to watch people who don't normally stand in front of a crowd, stand in front of a crowd. Their song or dance or monologue or feat may be crippled by their nervousness, but they stand there and give it all they've got. It's fun to root for the best and cheer on the worst. They're not all winners. But they're all tryers, and usually it's an honest show.

I'll admit that I've had my fascinations with American Idol. Some genuinely remarkable talent and some of today's biggest music names have come out of the TV talent show, and if nothing else, it has proven the old adage; It's not what you know. It's who you know. But the however-many-seasons-the-show-has-been-evolving-on-the-air-show has proven too that it is not completely honest - at least not up front. Still, you've got several million people who carve a notch in the middle of their week to take it in.

I'm sure most people who watch the show know that Randy, Paula, Simon, and now Kara don't take the time to listen to the tens of thousands who show up to audition. We're kinda led to believe that they do. But they don't. The couple of hundred singers who eventually do get to sing to the stars have been strung along and pumped up for weeks by the show's producers, since their first visit to the city. Even the tremendously tone-deaf who get the call-back have been misled into believing that they could possibly be the next amazing phenom in the pop music world. That's why so many bad singers walk away in tears after they were first congratulated and lauded by a phone call from LA , then laughed at and poked with a stick when the arrogant celebrities come to town. But it makes for good TV, and right now, that's what this show is really all about. A more serious look at music is scripted later in the season.

Personally, I think American Idol is as much about humiliating good people who just can't sing as it is finding really good singers. Many of the best who show up at the original audition hoping to be discovered have to be passed over. The show must make room for characters. When the show meets its quota of blond/brunette or tattooed/clean-cut or black/white (and this season Hispanic) good singers, there's no more need for another good voice. Talent or not, when they're full they're full. Now, if your fashion sense is a little off or if you have bad teeth, a skin problem and greasy hair you may have a chance yet. But only if you sing like a wounded banshee.

Several months ago American Idol came to Louisville. Several weeks later the famous faces arrived to tape their parts. After a few more weeks of shooting fields, trees, barns and banjos, then creatively editing the hours of footage, some of the good and much of the embarrassing was put on TV. I'm not sure why, but the producers felt it was necessary to make our state and all of its great citizens look like back-woods hicks and country goons. We're proud Kentuckians, and we're not ashamed of our culture. We're also not stupid. I was, along with many of my friends, humiliated again by a Hollywood that gets a sick kick out of manipulating and misrepresenting good people for a greedy purpose.

On the Louisville show Paula and Simon made a big deal out of a not so talented good old boy's country way of saying goodbye. He said, "Y'all be careful." Paula and Simon exploded, "What! Was that a threat!?" I'm sure that these two judges are like most celebrities that you couldn't get to for a handshake, much less something more sinister. Granted, the simple fella who really meant no harm at all could probably shoot the hood ornament off their speeding Jaguar if he wanted to. But why waste a bullet on such hollow things?

news of an honest nature

2009-01-26T12:00:00.000-05:00

I want to know what happened in the real world while I lived in my dreamy one overnight. So, most mornings my habit has me turning on the television for the early morning headlines. First the local word, which is usually pretty reliable, then the big stuff according to one of the networks. Even though most of the stories are usually sad or shocking even, the means and delivery are sometimes sort of a spectacle in themselves, and maybe just as newsworthy.

From time to time I’ll twit or blog something a little critical of one of the big news networks. It’s been revealing to learn how many people, more than I ever would’ve thought, actually attach their news source to their politics. They take it personally when you offer a bit of criticism or judgment on their favorite reporter, and that’s usually the one who slants the news in their favorite direction. I can mention CNN or MSNBC and you’d think I kneed a Democrat or a liberal in the groin. I’ve been getting more and more annoyed with Fox News lately. I mentioned it the other day when I updated my Facebook status. I was practically accused of digging up Ronald Reagan and rolling him over.

I’d love, really, really love to find a news source that is just honest. No weighting or leaning, no pro/con adjectives to tilt the story, no love/hate expressions. Just facts. Just straight-to-the-point information without a bias. If there is a network or a newspaper or a source out there anywhere that will allow me to determine the worthiness of the info, I’m having trouble finding it. I guess news is too big a business to risk something like a calm, neutral audience. NPR can’t even do it.

This morning, someone on the Today Show teased an “exclusive” interview coming up later, then they go to a commercial. I flip the channel and there is their “exclusive” interviewing with another talker on another network. As small as it seems, if the Merediths, Matts, Dianes and Harrys don’t mind fibbing a little on the small stuff, how reliable is the big story?

In the afternoons, I sometimes turn on CNN. There’s Wolf-man practically having an orgasm over our new president. It’s non-stop. If I guessed two thousand, I’d win the office pool on how many times “President Obama” can be mouthed in thirty minutes – and always with a trembling lip to prove the love. This has nothing to do with the president. But it has everything to do with “the most trusted name in news.”

Reliable info is just as scarce over at Fox, at least early in the day when I’m tuned in. They work hard on shock-and-awe there, so the teases and rhetoric is usually pretty over the top. This morning, in an attempt to keep us tuned in past the commercials, one of the guys who sits on the morning team couch just flat out lied. He was teasing a story from here in Kentucky that I’ve been keeping up with and know pretty well. The Fox guy obviously didn’t think the truth was spectacular enough, so he just made something up. Now that I caught their trick, I have to wonder if any of their words are accurate.

C-Span is a cool thing. It’s real reality TV. With no commentaries or “analysis” from talking heads who follow a political speech with, “what they were really saying,” you and I can just turn it on and watch the slow wheels of government do our business. Without the confusion of an untrustworthy reporter on a biased network we can see the nuts and bolts being turned right before our very eyes. I encourage you to take a look when you can. Sometimes it’s painfully dull, and other times it’s better than a Ringling Brothers show. But if it’s nothing else, it’s better than exaggerated, dishonest, politically tainted reporting.

yes, we did

2009-01-20T12:45:00.006-05:00

We've accomplished something today. It's a very, very monumental time for our nation, and because we are leaders on the globe, for the world. As an American, I'm excited and proud and encouraged. I'm not old enough, and I'm not Catholic, but if I had been around in 1961 I hope that I would've felt the same sense of progress then that I feel today

My delight has nothing to do with politics. Barack Obama is not our first Democrat president. He's not the first president from Illinois, or the first to inspire a generation. He's not the first to be called a liberal or the first to leave the US Senate to take up White House-keeping. He's not the youngest, or first to bring with him a young family. Other long shots have won. He's a politician, so he's certainly not the first to kiss babies, make promises and choke on a word or two.

This is a historic moment though. Our 44th president is giving all of us a place to look back on, a marker of sorts. Not so significant, he's the first president to admit he's addicted to his BlackBerry, the first to have his official portrait made with a digital camera and the first to use YouTube as a major campaign tool.

But there is a very significant second that has taken place today that is made even more emotional because of its connected firsts. About two years ago when a tall, intelligent young man stood on the steps of the state capitol in the land of Lincoln and announced his intentions to be president of the United States, many disregarded him and gave him no chance. There were too many reasons why he'd never be elected, and the most obvious couldn't be fixed.

Although planned, the history we've witnessed today is ironic and fascinating. Abraham Lincoln, the man who risked and gave his life so that others who didn't look like him, but more like the man who would nearly a century and a half later assume his old Washington, DC address, left his bible behind. 147 years, 10 months and 16 days ago it was used to swear in the nation's first Republican president. Today we get to see it for the first time, in the dark hands of a black presidential family that sees the truth of its freeing and liberating power.

You did very well, Mr. Lincoln. I'm sure if you were here you'd be thrilled to say it, "Yes, we did!"

what a day for mlk!

2009-01-19T18:00:00.003-05:00

These days presidents are sworn in on the west side of the US Capitol building. Forty five years ago it all happened on the opposite side. So it's impossible that the gentler, more inspiring face of the civil rights movement could've looked across the Mall from the Lincoln Memorial in 1963 to see a black president's inauguration. But dreamers don't have to see it to believe it, and Martin Luther King, Jr. was certainly a dreamer.

Not everyone agreed with his premise that the Constitution provides, guarantees even, equal liberty and opportunity for every American. Personally, I don't see how it's possible to read it any other way. But even if you can find a loophole in our nation's founding law, how is it possible to read Jesus' words or observe his deeds/heart and still believe that a person's skin determines their worth.

Had Dr. King lived twice as long as he did, tomorrow would be a tremendous and monumental day for the great inspirer. He'd surely feel that he had come as close as possible to seeing his Dream turn into reality. What a way to celebrate an 80th b'day!

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

And this will be the day -- this will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with new meaning:

My country 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died, land of the Pilgrim's pride,
From every mountainside, let freedom ring!

And if America is to be a great nation, this must become true.
And so let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire
Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York.

Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania.

Let freedom ring from the snow-capped Rockies of Colorado.

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California.

But not only that:
Let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia.

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee.

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi.

From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, when we allow freedom ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:

Free at last! Free at last!

Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!

new start

2009-01-01T06:00:00.000-05:00

Can we start over? Can we forget everything I’ve said and done up to this point? I’d like to erase, delete and disregard all of the minutes of my past now please. I want my next step to be my first. Can we start over?

One of the big movies of the holiday season features Brad Pitt as Benjamin Button. Ben is living life backwards. He’s starting at the end and working toward the beginning. It’s an impossible thing of course, but the idea is weirdly interesting. The movie’s synop says it’s about a man who is “born under unusual circumstances” and he’s unable to stop time. Who among us is?

I wasn’t born in my current place, in this present time. It’s taken me a while to get here. Like you, I was a user. I went through my share of diapers and bottles and cradles and grades and birthday cakes and library books and diplomas and jobs and speeding tickets and arguments and parties and dentist appointments and sermons and setbacks and on and on and on. Whether we’ve been fortunate enough to stumble into it, (Although I prefer to think of it as God getting me here even while I ignorantly made it more complicated than it should’ve been.) or we’ve worked our tails off to make our successes, it took some time, stubbornness and sweat to get to where we are.

So, thinking about it, if we could, would we really want to start over? I don’t want to do school again. I like being able to read, write, articulate, cipher, and drive. I don’t want to do the career ladder thing again either. I’m pleased with where I am, and I like the connections I have, and I’m not about to go back to my starting salary. I’ve worked hard to gradually trade up to a nicer car. Most things in my life are the culmination of hard work, strategy and patience. I don’t think I’m prepared to start them again.

I’ve done a few things I’m ashamed of and some I’m very proud of. I’d truly like to forget some of the embarrassing stuff. Some memories make me angry or sad, but some of my accomplishments pump me up. It’s all a part of who I am now. All the marks, whether they’re scars, wrinkles or medals, combine to form the tiny bits that make up all my parts and form my person, for good or bad.

Now, ask me if I’d like to go back to when my kids were young and I was thinner. Offer me the opportunity to rock my babies to sleep and I’ll jump right on it. Tell me it’s fashionably safe to pull the old suits back out and I’m a new man. Allow me to go back to the days of less stress, lighter loads and simpler solutions and I’ll buy a ticket. But be sure to quote the price first.

naughty mary!

2008-12-25T06:00:00.000-05:00

It’s just crazy how these things happen. From over here, across the street, everything looked just fine. Their yard was always neat, their car always clean. You never heard any yelling or loud music from their house. I don’t know when’s the last time they missed church. They seem like the perfect, got-it-all-together family. You never know what goes on behind closed doors though.

I’m not sure if you’ve heard. Word is, lean in, I’ll whisper. Word is the girl is pregnant. And she’s not married! How sad. And such a sweet family too. Oh Lord! I hope our property value doesn’t slide. Maybe we should move. Maybe they should. I think I’ll keep the kids close to home for a while. Maybe her parents will send her away. I may suggest that. Yeah, Mary needs to go away for a while.

Up until now I don’t think she’s ever given her parents or anyone the first ounce of trouble. She always seemed so sweet and quiet – and responsible. She was our best bible quizzer. I loved her solos with the choir. My kids say she’s smart in school, a teacher’s pet. I wonder what went wrong.

I hear she’s talking out of her head now and seeing things. She claims she talks to angels, and they TALK BACK! And then there’s something about a “holy ghost,” whatever that is. Does she have any idea of the shame she’s bringing on her family?

You know how things like this get blown out of proportion, but there’s all kinds of stuff floating around out there. Not that it’s any of my business, but evidently the girl refuses to accept any kind of responsibility for her recklessness. She won’t say who the kid belongs to, except that it’s “God’s plan for her.” Pardon the finger-quotes here, but unmarried teenagers having babies is NEVER God’s plan!! She needs to just own up to it, tell us who the daddy is and make him take some responsibility. If he was a real man he would. Then again, a real man wouldn’t… Ah, I’ll bet it’s that Joe guy she’s been seeing. They had wedding plans didn’t they? I’ll bet he’s embarrassed. He should be.

Evidently there’s some weird story going on with the rest of her family too. Someone told me her Aunt Liz is expecting in a few weeks and her Uncle Zach, the preacher, is mute all of the sudden. They’re both hearing voices, and Liz’s baby is doing summersaults in her belly. Personally, I think the whole family is going nuts. Thank God I’m not related.

That’s the part that bothers me most. They keep invoking God. They’re blaming Him for all of this silliness. One thing I know, God wouldn’t want to be associated with the likes of people like that who do things like that. Maybe the church should consider some sort of intervention, maybe even just ask them to leave. The deacons ought to at least say something. We can’t have sinners and crazies hanging around the church. What will people think??

*I enjoy sharing a few of my thoughts as a contributing writer to several web sites and print publications. This writing was seen far and wide recently at sgmradio.com.

ronnie

2008-12-23T12:00:00.002-05:00

Some people have sad, even tragic stories. You probably know someone who's worked hard and believed that one day things will be good, or at least better. Their todays look remarkably like their yesterdays, but they make the effort and really believe that they'll rise above their current place sometime, hopefully soon.

I don't think Ronnie's story is tragic, not even sad. It's actually very inspiring and contagious. He's a hard working achiever who's done just that - achieved. Through dreaming and learning, he realized the world was much, much bigger than the one he'd always known, and his options and opportunities for success were really real.

It's not all he talks about, but I've heard my friend tell of his life as a kid in southeastern Kentucky. He's the first in his family to attend, much less graduate college. According to him, no one around his house ever saw the need. He did though, and he's doing quite well because of it.

That makes it even more of an honor for me to say, "Happy birthday Dr. Ronnie!"

the boy, er, reporter who cried...

2008-12-10T12:00:00.023-05:00

There once was a shepherd boy reporter who was angry bored as he sat in on the newsroom hillside watching the American people. village sheep. To arouse amuse himself he took a camera and a mic great breath and reported, sang out, "Beware! Beware! No one is shopping!" "Wolf! Wolf! The Wolf is chasing the sheep!"

The American people villagers came running to the stores to buy all they could. up the hill to help the boy drive the wolf away. But when they arrived, the stores were full, they found no lack. at the top of the hill, they found no wolf. The reporter boy laughed at the sight of their gullible angry faces.

"Don't cry 'emergency', 'wolf', reporter man," shepherd boy," said the American people, villagers, "when there's no emergency!" wolf!" They went grumbling back to their houses. down the hill.

The next Christmas, Later, the reporter boy sang out again, "Beware! Beware! No one is shopping!" "Wolf! Wolf! The wolf is chasing the sheep!" To his naughty delight, he watched the American people villagers run to the stores to buy all they could. up the hill to help him drive the wolf away.

When the American people villagers saw no lack wolf they sternly said, "Save your frightened song for when there is really something wrong! Don't cry 'emergency' 'wolf' when there is NO emergency!" wolf!"

But the reporter boy just grinned and watched them go grumbling back to their houses down the hill once more.

The next Christmas, Later, there was he saw a REAL lack of holiday shoppers in the stores. wolf prowling about his flock. Alarmed, he leaped to his feet and reported sang out as loudly as he could, "Beware! Beware! No one is shopping!" "Wolf! Wolf!"

But the American people villagers thought he was trying to fool them again, and so they didn't come.

After Christmas At sunset, everyone wondered why the reporter shepherd boy hadn't returned to been on the TV. village with their sheep. They went to the mall up the hill to find the reporter. boy. They found him working the counter at the video game store. weeping.

"There really were no shoppers! was a wolf here! The economy is broken! flock has scattered! I cried out, "Beware!" "Wolf!" Why didn't you come?"

An old man tried to comfort the reporter boy as they strolled through the mall. they walked back to the village.

"We'll take you seriously when you report honestly," help you look for the lost sheep in the morning," he said, putting his arm around the reporter, youth, "Nobody believes a liar...even when he is telling the truth!"

love the sin, hate the sinner

2008-12-04T06:00:00.011-05:00

Don't read this if you're easily provoked to anger or don't want to cry, or scream even.

Reading this morning's headline was not a good way to start the day, and I wasn't the victim or her family. I can only imagine how broken and angry they must be. The bold print was bad enough, but the details that followed made it even more difficult to comprehend. Last week, a child, a beautiful and completely innocent two year old baby girl had been raped and beaten. Yesterday she died from her injuries. The young man who has been charged with the crime, if he did it, is obviously deranged and terribly disturbed. The story says he was a friend of the baby's daddy.

If I spend much time thinking about it I become very sad. But then again, I don't have to pick out a last little dress or decide among the kid-sized caskets or look prematurely for a place to bury it. I don't have to wake up tomorrow with the numbness of a dazed parent who'd just thanked God for their baby blessing only a week ago. I don't have to figure out what to do with a newly emptied baby bed, a chest full of childless toys or a closet full of memoried toddler outfits. By week's end the press will have moved on and this story will be replaced. Most of us will no longer see little Katelynn Sinnett's baby picture smile. But all the hearts and hands that held her close will still be struggling to adjust to days and life without her.

It is a billion percent beyond me how a human being with any sense of daylight and dark can come to the place of doing such a terrible, terrible thing. At what point does the brain rationalize something so evil? The better questions is, when, in the process of such outrageous abuse does the heart, the conscience disengage? They tell me that even in a prison full of hardened offenders there is not a safe place for the child abuser, let alone a child murderer. Even to the common convicted criminal there is a line.

The story is sad, mostly because a child is gone, but partly because there are others who aren't even mentioned who grieve as well. There are parents, maybe siblings and friends of the accused who are trying today to sort out a million emotions. How does a mom or a dad show devotion to a son who has just violated and killed a baby? Knowing that most everyone who is aware of his deed wants him tortured and killed, what do you say to him? How do you love someone that everyone else hates? How much of the blame do you put on yourself? Do you even acknowledge your place in his life, or his place in yours? The newspaper never mentions them, but there are other broken humans to consider.

So far the responses from the community, with the exception of a very few, have, in my opinion, not represented God very well. After years of sermons telling us to hate the sin but love the sinner, there seems to be an exception here. The online edition of the newspaper that ran this morning's story is allowing readers to comment. I've been mostly disappointed in what I've read from my self-identified brothers and sisters in the faith.

"I'm a fairly calm, cool, and collected person. I'm a Christian... I think a splintered log rammed into his rear might be a good start. Then drop his torn and tattered butt off of the roof of the prison that he's in only to be met by several inmates that proceed to beat him to a pulp and whatever else they may choose to do to him. Then... lastly, make him crawl to the execution chamber so that the state can rid this world of such evil and filth... My prayers go out to Katelynn's family... I'm so so sorry for your loss!"

"I have never considered myself a violent person, but allow me to preside over the punishment of this pervert. In the end, he would beg for death to ease his punishment... The only comfort in this story is that the little girl died, and the Bible tells us that she is now in heaven, sitting on the right hand of Jesus..."

"Can I pull the trigger...please?"

"There is no other punishment that would fit this crime - send him straight to the execution chamber. And before all you self-righteous people go saying "no death penalty" and "eye for an eye does not make this right" answer this question - if this was your daughter, or granddaughter, or niece that this happened to, would you honestly feel that the death penalty was not the right punishment in this case? If you can honestly say you could forgive this man, I envy you. I could not."

The last poster has a good point. I've often said myself that there are only a small handful of people in this world that I'd be willing to go to jail for, and they all share my last name. I don't want to have to think about how I'd react if I were in the place of Katelynn's parents. I don't know if I'd feel satisfied in knowing that the person who hurt and terrified my baby, the last person to see her alive, was screaming from the pain of torture. I've contemplated and personally wrestled with this conflict from time to time - from a distance of course. This is what I do know; I feel great sadness for a family knowing terrible, tremendous loss. I feel great anger toward the man who did the despicable, pathetic deed. I get no joy knowing that a child did and the perpetrator will likely experience great pain.

world aids day

2008-12-01T06:00:00.008-05:00

It's easy to see why some events, the life changing ones, stick around in our bank of memories. I remember where I was, what the weather was like, and the sick feeling I got when I watched 9/11 happen. What's weird is how we sometimes remember one of those long-ago not-so-spectacular life moments.

I was probably a young teenager when I first heard about AIDS. Reports on television, in the newspapers and magazines were talking about it. And of course the famous TV pastors/evangelists were weighing in too.

Jerry Falwell, Jimmy Swaggart and James Dobson weren't the first to call AIDS the gay man's disease. As a matter of fact, it was the secular press that first referred to it as GRID (Gay Related Immune Deficiency). The repeated reference though gave these preachers, and others, lots of ammunition and "scientific" support for their theory that God was killing gay people - and to hear them tell it, He's having a blast.

The memory that is so vivid to me is the night our family was driving down the highway in Richmond, KY. I was probably 14 or 15 years old. We were right in front of the new McDonalds on the bypass, when Dad said something about AIDS being God's judgement on homosexuals. Understand this, my dad is the most loving, tender and patient person I know. The things he was saying were not original to him, and he said it with grief in his voice and sadness in his eyes. It was the people he had confidence in and was learning from who were telling all of their followers that God created this new disease to punish people, specifically gay people. My dad was repeating the untested words of his favorite bible teachers.

I'm not sure why that moment, those words and those surroundings still stand out to me. Our family talked about a lot of things when we were together in the car. But even as a young and very naive fella it didn't seem right to me that God would be so villainous to one group of people while being so passive to all the exploits of others.

I recently had an opportunity to be part of a conference at a church just outside of Little Rock. While I was there I met Randall Balmer. I'd heard of him, seen him on TV and flipped through a couple of his books. At the conference I got to know him and to hear him speak. He mentioned how the Christian church, specifically certain leaders on the very conservative side, have used HIV/AIDS as a rallying point - not to show compassion, but to preach painful exclusion. What could be and should be an opportunity to exhibit God's mercy and healing is instead used as a tool for godless ridicule and shame on humans who are much more in need of help than scorn.

According to what we know, what is now referred to as AIDS (Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome) is caused by HIV (the Human Immunodeficiency Virus). The virus was first detected and reported in the US in 1981 in Los Angeles among five homosexual men. A recent study states though that HIV probably moved from Africa to Haiti and then entered the United States sometime around 1969. This would mean that God was dealing deadly judgement on the people of Africa and other countries long before Americans were being punished.

In 2007 there were 33.2 million people around the world living with AIDS. That same year a little over 2 million of them died. That includes almost 330,000 children, and over 75 percent of those were in sub-Saharan Africa. Why would God have such disdain for the African children?

There are certainly consequences for reckless behavior. When anyone opens the door for disease or illness they are taking a risk. But to say that God is especially angry with a particular set of people, and chooses to inflict upon them a long, painful disease at best, or death at worst, is either ignorantly misleading or dangerously contemptible. What are the arguments for plane crashes, cancer, diabetes and rape victims? What did these people do to earn their pain and their punishment? Is God punishing black people with Sickle-Cell Anaemia? At least explain to me why those who are sick through no fault of their own have been sentenced with the disease.

Thanks in large part to the teachings of high-profile preachers, the stigma that comes with HIV/AIDS is still very real today. I know of parents who have disowned their infected child because their church said they should. This puts a sick kid on the streets in the name of God. I've read stories of people who contracted the disease and were told that God hated them, so they killed themselves. Was that really God's solution? There are so many good people who face life with HIV/AIDS, and God has chosen to embrace them while too many His people, His vessels of compassion, either out of anger, guilt, shame or ignorance, turn them away. Because of a handful of angry religious leaders who needed a villain to stir up the troops and bring in the dollars, there are millions who not only live with a terrible disease, but they do it without the very hands and hearts that were supposed to minister to them.

There is good news though. The Church of the Nazarene, the Presbyterian Church USA, the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and several other Christian denominations are hearing God's heart and reaching into the lives of those who live with HIV/AIDS. There are other regional ministries such as AIDS Ministries/AIDS Assist in northern Indiana and Alexian Brothers Bonaventure House in Chicago among others that do it on a local level. Beyond the Christian church there is the Council of Religious AIDS Networks that provides information and real help to those who wish to start or join an AIDS help team. There are also many citywide and area non-religious organizations that help HIV/AIDS victims deal with practical life and matters. Where I live in Lexington, KY it is AVOL. On a national and global scale there are awareness organizations like ONE and the US government's web site http://www.aids.gov/.

There are lots of opportunities to get involved and be the compassionate, concerned Christian or casual citizen we all want our neighbors to be. There's no better time to get started than on this 20th anniversary of World AIDS Day. Maybe you'll remember exactly where you were when you started making the difference.

the sun/son

2008-11-30T06:00:00.002-05:00

Did you see the show this morning? I hope so. It was spectacular. There it was, big, bright and right on time. We knew it was coming. Several things gave it away. First of all, there was the prelude. Just as the show was about to begin the birds, who'd been quiet and still for the last several hours, started their introduction. They must have received a cue from the conductor. Then gradually, one by one the stars began their disappearing act, giving way to the real star of the show. Then it started. At first just a ray, then a peek. And before you knew it there it was, bright enough and warm enough to dry the dew and melt the fog. The sun came up this morning and what a show it put on. Not that we weren’t expecting it. We figured there’d be another day.

When you last did the laundry you must have been thinking you'd be wearing that shirt again. Otherwise you would've just thrown the dirty stuff away. Same goes for the dishes. And believe me, I'd never bother mowing the lawn if I thought there was a real chance the grass wouldn't eventually turn to weeds.

At my house it can get really hectic in the morning. I’ve learned to do as much night before preparation as I can. I set the timer on the coffee maker, lay out my clothes and even do pre-prep on tomorrow’s lunch if necessary. At the Bishop house, I expect the sun to come up at its usual time or else I wouldn't bother to set that annoying alarm. So I’m really not surprised when it actually happens. (It would be nice though if it didn't happen so early.)

So we wash and mow and clock in and shave and shower and study and answer email because we're pretty sure the sun's coming up in the morning. If we didn't think so we'd probably all stink, let the yard grow into a jungle, live ignorant and max out the inbox. As Christians we read our Bibles, have our devotions and pray because we still expect the sun to come up in the morning. If we didn't, we’d live shallow and miss a lot of great promises, all with a stinky spirit.

So the believer asks, "Kenny, how can you be so sure about this? What if Jesus comes back tonight?”

As far as I'm concerned that doesn't change a thing. Whether it's the sun or the Son, there will be a dawning. Count on it. And since I’m so sure of it I plan to carry on with the business of faith and family and friends. Then once the Son has popped over the horizon all of the chores we’ve gotten good at doing out of habit will suddenly be done. Then the things we once just believed in will be just as real as the fact that the sun or the Son just showed up.

Did you catch the show this morning… the sunrise? If not there's another performance scheduled in just a few hours. If you've seen it before you know it's worth seeing again because every show is just a little bit different. Then there's the one with no repeat performances. It's a one-time only event. Believe me, you really won't want to miss the Son rise.

*I enjoy sharing a few of my thoughts as a contributing writer to several web sites and print publications. This writing was seen far and wide several years ago in the Singing News Magazine and more recently at sgmradio.com.

thanks for...

2008-11-27T06:00:00.001-05:00

...God and all the trimmings. Wrap your head around that. When God gets access to you and your stuff you usually get much more in return than you really expected. And what's really cool is most of it is invisible. So, sometimes I just say, "Thanks, God for you and all the trimmings."

More later.

please don't, people

2008-11-16T06:00:00.003-05:00

Christian and I had a cold blast last night. We'd been talking all season about going to a University of Kentucky football game, and this was our last regular season chance. The final home game was against Vanderbilt and was it evermore a cold one. As cold as it was down next to the field where we were I couldn't imagine how frigid it must've been up where the wind was really blowing. Even with all the layers we wrapped ourselves up in (think the kid in the movie A Christmas Story), we still did some shaking. But it was worth every bone chilling moment to hang with my best pal and cheer on some blue.

I'd say there were probably 50,000 or better in attendance last night. I always think it's fun to watch the different personalities and listen in on conversations that are too loud to be ignored. Right behind us were to older guys who I'da swore had to be those two old men who sat in the balcony on the Muppet Show. They were grouchy, sarcastic and hilarious. I don't know if they were talking so loud because they couldn't hear, or if they just didn't care to let section 126 in on their conversation. It was good play-by-play commentary though.

Besides the fact that UK lost, there was one thing that really disappointed me about the game. I know we all get emotional when our team is losing. I know we sometimes feel brave when everyone around us is wearing the same color, and every now and then the mob mentality takes over. It made me nearly sick though when I heard this kid sitting on the other side of me using pathetic, degrading names for the other team's players and even their cheerleaders. When an Asian guy in a Commodore uniform came close to where we were this kid screamed something derogatory about his eyes and told him to go back to where he came from. That would be Nashville, kid. You can guess what he had to say about the black players.

This kid didn't represent our team or our university, and he certainly didn't speak for me. But I was ashamed that someone with white skin like mine, wearing all blue like me, sitting in a seat next to me and cheering for my team would say such racist, repulsive things. He and I resembled way too much for me to be comfortable with it. Where did he pick up this sort of thinking? Who ever led him to believe that that's the way you support your own team, that it was funny, or even acceptable?

I've got a good idea that with all of the other games going on last night there were probably other kids, or even adults, at another stadium somewhere throwing out that same kind of language. When the Wildcats get to Vandy next time they may hear it themselves from a 'Dores fan. If I can't handle it being hurled at the other guys I'm sure I don't want my team to have to face it.

ernie

2008-11-12T06:00:00.009-05:00

Knowing that the variety of my careers has taken me through the thick of political work and some high-level campaigning, a lot of my friends who are not necessarily involved in, but are fascinated with it like to talk politics when we're together. I usually enjoy the conversations, and I've picked up on the value of listening closely and talking without necessarily saying anything. I've also learned not to commit to a position when I'm conversing with a very opinionated political junkie.

One of the most startling observations I've made during my time in politics is the stark difference in the way things are sometimes portrayed, either by an opponent or maybe even the press, and the way things really are. Being on the inside of a real, honest-to-goodness, high-profile political campaign gives you a perspective that most others on the outside don't usually get.

When music was my main source of income I had the fun luxury of doing some small-time political campaign work on the side. I mostly worked for Republicans, but had some Democrat clients too. I've never been hung up on a candidate's political affiliation. Rather, we'd talk issues before I decided whether or not to get involved. I feel the same way today.

It was while I was at a political fund raiser several years ago that I ran into my US Congressman, Ernie Fletcher. We'd met before at other events, mostly charitable and non-political. At this event though he mentioned to me that he had formed an exploratory committee to look at a possible run for governor. He gauged my interest in joining the campaign and told me he'd have one of his folks give me a call. Within a month I was working for him.

Honestly, I was scared to death. My first job was to basically be his handler. I had to stay close enough that he knew where I was at all times. Actually, it was completely reversed. He moved like lightning and I had to know where he was all the time. Even if he lost sight of me, he was never to be out of my view. It was while we were in the car on the way to that first event that I asked him how he'd like for me to address him. I was thinking Congressman Fletcher or Mr. Congressman or at least Mr. Fletcher. He said Ernie was just fine.

That's how we got started. In the years since then he was elected and served four years as Kentucky's governor. I thought the year and a half leading up to election day was tough. The handful of days planning and pulling off the inauguration was grueling too. But then came governing.

No one is elected unanimously. Every person who serves in public office has supporters and detractors. From the moment a politician takes office there are professional and amateur critics who have already started the kick-the-bum-out campaign. Believe it or not, there are people who wouldn't mind us all living through a bit of grief if they thought their political nemesis would get the blame and the boot. This kind of treatment wasn't new or unique to the new governor, but this was the closest I'd been to the action.

In the new administration my job was to make him as comfortable as possible. Sounds crazy I know, but after being fed hours and hours of non-stop information about everything from Medicaid to trout farming, a man has to decompress at some point. He has to have a place to retreat to and scream if he wants to. I gave him that place, at least as best I could. I ran the house that the governor lived in. And I was very, very proud to do it.

When he'd come home and we'd just chat I always tried to avoid the stuff he'd been talking about all day. He'd had enough of that. He always asked about Casie and Christian, and I was always happy to fill him in. Sometimes he just wanted to release, so I just listened. I'll never forget the late night when he we were up in the residence and he just said it. "Kenny, I really do want to do what's right for Kentucky. I want to help the kids and their parents and their grandparents. I want teachers to make more money and I want people to be happier and healthier." No reporters, cameras or microphones. No crowds of supporters. No protesters. Just me and him. And there was frustration in his voice.

I learned a whole lot from the man Ernie Fletcher. I couldn't keep up with his intellect. Sometimes he'd look at me and say something really brilliant and I'd nod like I was right there with him. But a saxophone playing engineer/fighter pilot/doctor/minister/congressman/governor knows a lot of stuff about a lot of things. More than knowledge though, he taught me about sacrifice and service and faith and patience, all to the nth degree. I also learned control. When everyone around him was telling him to take off the gloves, he'd say he was a doctor elected to heal not injure.

After he became governor I didn't ask him how he wanted to be addressed. He would've said that Ernie was just fine. I didn't think so though, and to this day, nearly a year after he got his life back, I still say happy b'day Gov!!

papaw's service

2008-11-11T06:00:00.004-05:00

Several years ago me and my brothers had to say goodbye to our last living grandparent. We called him Papaw Henry. He was Mom's dad. I don't remember Papaw as being a man with a lot of words. He always looked like he was thinking, and he never, ever seemed to sit down. As a matter of fact, he roamed a lot, mostly through the woods. He would sometimes head out the door before the sun came up, disappear into the trees and be invisible 'til sundown, sometimes sunup tomorrow. He knew how to live ruggedly and naturally. Papaw was a survivor - in more ways than I probably really knew.

When Papaw got too old to trek through the woods he pretty much figured he was too old to live. Sitting in an air conditioned room or at a nursing home wasn't his idea of living. Life was in the trees, under the stars, beyond the ridge, over the creek. There was too much Indian in him not to enjoy the dirt and the rain and their children. So when he couldn't make it among the elements he wasn't really interested in making it at all. Sadly, that's bound to happen after so many years.

I do remember Papaw driving a variety of cars over the years. He was somewhat of a horse-trader, so trading up to him meant getting a car with a full tank of gas. Honestly, I don't think he ever carried a driver's license. I could be wrong, but it seems like someone told me once that he never bothered to get one. Evidently he didn't see the need.

Knowing what I do about him, I'll bet Papaw learned most of his lessons the hard way. When any of his young grandkids asked him what he was chewing, and even with only a couple of teeth in his head he was always chewing - and spitting, he'd cut 'em off a piece of the tobacco twist he carried around and give it to them. They'd put it in their mouth, it would burn like the dickens, they'd spit it out and never take up chewing tobacco again. It was his way of telling us to do as he says, not as he does.

Papaw lived a very, very hard working and practical life. His pets lived in the trees and under the brush. They were also his sustenance. Squirrels, rabbits, turkeys and deer were part of the provision. His own cattle, pigs and chickens were too. The eggs and bacon came from the barn. He cooked his own sorghum and grew his own vegetables. Tomorrow's milk and butter was grazing just across the little wire fence. Papaw's yelp brought the cows back across the knob every night. We knew they heard him when we heard their bells.

I try when I can to pause and remember. I sometimes think if I could go back to those days and nights at Mamaw and Papaw's house, the one tucked up in the hollow (pronounced holler), just across the creek from the narrow, dirt road, I'd be where I belong. I know for sure there was no air conditioning in that little farm house. On cold days, heat came from the coal burning stove in the front room. I'm sure it got both hot and cold in that small, square box, but I don't remember it as a miserable experience.

Papaw Henry was a veteran. He served his country as a proud, young American. That was long before I knew him. That was long before my mom knew him. I've seen pictures of him in his uniform, but I don't ever recall him making a big deal out of it. We did though. When we were planning his funeral, we made sure that he was honored with a flag and a stone to remind all of us that it is the simple, common, everyday man and woman who keeps us free.

casie, princess, angel, daddy's girl

2008-11-10T12:00:00.002-05:00

Looking back twenty years, interestingly enough, a Bush was getting ready to take up housekeeping in the White House. Since he'd been veepin' the last eight years it was just a short move - distance wise and positionally. But any time we elect a new president it's major stuff.

Two days after the vote, it was still break room chatter. And when I darted past the waiting room I noticed it was also still the headline. But if word got out about what was happening down the maternity ward hallway at Pattie A. Clay Hospital there'd be helicopters, news trucks, cameras, microphones and eager reporters all over the place. Presidential elections are big doings, but the birth of a princess is even bigger.

I woke up feeling very melancholy today. I've been reliving November 10, 1988 like it was both yesterday and a million years ago. It was one of the most memorable and remarkable days of my life. A moment of honest awakening that I'd heard about from other people with parental experience became real to me that day. As miraculous as the earthly entrance of my baby girl was, so was the love and immediate sense of baby-Bishop-protector that instantly took hold of my heart.

She didn't have to say a thing. It was automatic love at first sight. It would've been as easy for me to tell her how I felt as it would've been for her to explain the sensation of being born. Words would've cheapened it anyway. No attempt at affection on her part was required. I didn't have to know what her talents were. I had no clue of the beautiful young lady she'd become or of her winning personality. I didn't have to. Absolutely nothing was required of Casie Bishop to win my devotion to her. I was in love with her before I'd ever seen her. But I was madly, adamantly, crazy in love when her wrinkled little face made its very first worldly appearance. I was stunned and startled to be wrapped so tightly around those seconds old tiny fingers.

We try to celebrate the occasion about this same time every year. That's not unusual. Most people remember special days like this. We throw parties and give gifts. We buy cards and make phone calls. This is daddy's girl though. I can't even begin to gift her with anything that can mean as much to her as she means to me. If someone somewhere sold it, I'd trade all my stuff to see that she got it. It sorta frustrates me because I want her to know, somehow, what a precious, precious thing she is to me.

Just last week my baby girl cast her first ever presidential vote. I couldn't imagine that twenty years ago. It never entered my mind then that people today would be talking about a new leader. Not much has changed that way. But in so many other ways that matter I'm richer, happier and more satisfied than I ever could imagine. I owe so much of that to my princess. The world should be grateful. It's a much better place because she's in it.

Happy birthday Baby Doll!!

the rest of the story...

2008-11-01T12:00:00.002-04:00

It’s hard to have out loud qualms with anything in the Bible. You can think it all you want I guess, but if you actually say something like, “What was God thinking when he outlawed shopping on Sunday and pork rinds?” someone very religious is likely to hear from Heaven and accept God’s call to get you saved again. So I hesitate to verbalize my little bit of disappointment in a great piece of holy text.

Being sort of a rebel myself, I’ve learned that there is a whole lot more to the prodigal story than just a good son, a bad son, a good dad, a bad son turned good son and a good son turned bad son who ended up disappointing his dad with his selfishness. The basic message of patient grace is wonderful indeed, but what about the unsaid parts?

I wonder what the younger son’s name was. I kind of wish we knew something other than just Prodigal. It would be nice to tell the story and call him Chad or Jeremy or even Kenny. Then again, attaching a name to something as deeply personal as scandal and rebellion and failure might be a bit embarrassing, especially since the story is an international best seller. Still, a proper name might help put a face on the drama. So, I’ll just call him Prod.

I wonder if Prod ever shook the memories of his old pig-pen pals. The smells, the sights, the sounds, the moments, the people… How could those faces not be embedded deep into his recollection of the whole terrible experience? When he closed his eyes, or found a few moments of quiet, it must’ve been very easy for the one time rebel to live the emotion all over again. You don’t share your last corn husk or the loneliest days of your life with someone and not remember. He had to wonder where they were now. Did they ever escape the slop? And if they did, was there even a place for them to go? Having despair and hunger and shame in common would certainly create a bond, and it’s usually not understood by the well fed or the well respected.

Prod’s daddy owns the farm. That’s why the guys in the front office can’t figure him out. Instead of lunch at the corporate table, Prod finds a place in the back field, under a tree with the farm hands. Their calluses, their brows, their eyes all remind him of the ones he worked beside and even partied with when he was running. He feels he owes them something, even if it’s just attention – or compassion. As much as his upbringing had taught him about his rightful place in the family, it was the conversations, the empty expressions and the broken spirits he encountered in his rebellion that led him to discover his place in the world. To forget who they were and where they were and why they were there – to ignore their need and their plight would be as sinful as the rebellion itself.

It’s not just the guys in the suits who don’t understand. No one can unless they’ve risked and lost everything; slept on a cold sidewalk; stared down the barrel of a mugger’s gun; woke up in a stranger’s bed; fought the temptation to drink and shoot up; begged for a morsel and robbed for a dime; hated their very existence; wondered if anyone back home ever even thought of them… Unless they knew what he knew, Prod knew they’d never understand.

It’s crazy what being a prodigal does to you. Prod knows. The throw aways become treasures. The misunderstood are respected. The despised are embraced. Obligation becomes passion. That is the unsaid part of the story.

*I enjoy sharing a few of my thoughts as a contributing writer at sgmradio.com. As older posts are removed from that site I'll be posting them here. This writing was seen far and wide over there during the month of October.

b&b

2008-10-27T06:00:00.001-04:00

One of the real treats I get to enjoy as I travel is meeting wonderful people and making friends. Several weeks ago I had a chance to worship with, visit with and eat with a wonderful couple in Petersburg, Indiana. Steve & Donna Mikels are two of the most genuine and kind people you'll ever find. A glance at their eyes proves it. You can see their hearts in there.

Steve and Donna own and operate the Log Ends Bed and Breakfast in Petersburg. I had a chance to stay there this past weekend. Besides the gorgeous log house that sits so stately on the hill in the middle of their big farm, they keep a quaint but roomy little log cabin that sits just behind the main house all tidied up and ready for a traveler seeking quiet and comfort.

I've had their food. It's country fantastic. I've enjoyed their company. It's neighborly friendly. I've slept in their guest cabin. It's heaven under the downs. I'm anxious to get back to re-live the farm life as soon as I can.

Hop over to www.log-ends.com when you can and plan to visit Log Ends soon after. Tell Steve and Donna I said hello.

cherri

2008-10-13T12:00:00.001-04:00

If you're out and about much, or if you have a life outside your TV room you've probably met people who either leave an impression or walk away as unfamiliar as they approached. Of the thousands, maybe more, people I've had the joy to meet, only a comparative few really stick out.

There are those who have been very kind to me. They've shown me love and patience and support and concern. They've prayed, given gifts, baked goodies, offered financial help, bought tickets and music, provided transportation and a variety of other gracious things. They have a place of significance in my heart and mind.

There are others who've been at least somewhat of a disappointment. I expected something more and received something less. Even when I don't want to, I tend to remember them for that reason.

In really rare moments you find, get to know, and come to love someone who becomes an extra special friend. They're special because they offered a shoulder or counsel or just patience. They're infinitely special because you know you can trust their loyalty, their advice and their confidence.

That describes Cherri. She and I met when we were both thrown into a room and tasked with making a major multi-million dollar, four year event complete with a parade, fireworks, flyovers, VIPs and dignitaries, bands, choirs and TV reporters all happen in thirty days. The team was bigger than the two of us, but Cherri and I were toward the top of the responsibility ladder. We bonded quickly and learned that we could trust each other. We watched each other's backs and didn't mind when one of us stepped in to make a quiet adjustment to the other's work.

Cherri is a dedicated, hard worker and a tireless organizer. She's comfortable with big tasks, but knows too when it's time to step back and focus on her family and her friends. Her kids think she's the best. I can see why.

My trusted and very special friend Cherri is celebrating her ** b'day today. (We have an understanding.) Although I'm not able to join her at the piano lounge like we did a couple of years ago, I'd say she's enjoying the day just the same. She knows the value of those 24 hours.

Happy birthday my sweet friend!!

ladies and gentlemen...

2008-10-10T12:00:00.000-04:00

What a night! It was a once in a lifetime moment. The crowd was wild! All they knew to do was scream, throw flowers and beg for his autograph. People will be talking about it for years to come. Tomorrow's mothers and grandmothers who are today's little girls will talk about the night they actually witnessed it.

It was a magical moment that will go down in history as one of Prestonsburg, Kentucky's proudest. The regular kid from the mountains of eastern Kentucky who made it to the big stage did it here first. My daddy's grandson, the boy who is mine, my own flesh and blood made his professional stage debut last night. How cool!

Christian is a good singer. He can hit a note, hold a note and let go of a note. He can curl, flip it and slide into it whenever it's necessary. He stands there and sings it flat-footed. And last night he did it like a pro. I can retire now.

Way to go Pal!!!!! Woo hoo!!!

debate?

2008-10-07T06:00:00.003-04:00

Someone said there was a presidential debate last night. I saw a conversation about the next president going on, but I didn't notice a debate.

This was supposed to be Senator McCain's night. The format was his idea. Although he didn't trip and fall or anything while he wondered all over the platform, he didn't seem to excel either. The good news for him is neither did Senator Obama.

One thing I did notice about the people in the room was the lack of hair. Many of the men in most of the TV shots were shiny on top. Something else that seemed noticeably absent was people of color. There were a few, maybe even only two or three, but their representation seemed nearly non-existent I thought.

There was talk of war and oil and stocks and bonds and bail outs and other stuff, but I got sleepy and turned it off. That's really pretty bad when it's something as important as the next leader of our country. But I've worked in politics and I know the strategy. If you're winning, play it safe. Obama did that well. If you're not winning throw a curve-ball and put the other guy on the defensive. It was obvious that McCain wasn't gonna, so I went to bed.

baron

2008-10-06T12:00:00.002-04:00

Certain people you just know in a quiet sort of way. It's probably because that particular person is a quiet sort of person. Let me introduce you to Baron. At the moment I met him he struck me as, well, quiet.

Now that I know him better though, quiet and diminutive little Baron has proven himself to have an opinion and the wherewithal to defend it. I can see where people who don't know him well would get the impression that he could be an easy push-over. I'll give it only one good shove though for them to learn otherwise. In the right situation his small frame has a way of growing taller and broader. I think it's kinda neat to watch. Not like the Incredible Hulk or anything. More like a cat arching its back.

Baron is smart. I like chatting with him and learning from him. He's up on culture and his views are always reasoned and educated. He's also a good cook, fun to hang around, and every time I've seen him he has a pleasant smile.

He's a birthday boy today. I'm not sure how old he is, but if he's 25 he looks young for his age. Happy b'day my friend!!

talking veeps

2008-10-03T06:00:00.003-04:00

Well that was a nice piece of political tv I thought. The senator from Delaware and the governor from Alaska looking pressed and neat and prepared to say whatever was necessary to keep the faithful faithful and hopefully lure in a straggler or two - as long as the script allowed it. Here's my take.

Their Style: Both candidates played it as safe as possible with their appearance, except for Joe's suit. That was a mistake. The shiny little stripes made him look sorta like a used car salesman. Even though that's his style, a dark-blue solid would've been great. The tie was perfect though. It worked well with his hair. Sarah was looking nice in her dark suit. Not sure about the red heels though. I understand the importance of height and stature in situations like this. But the back-shots didn't work in her favor. She still came across as much smaller than the senator. All-in-all, I think they both looked very nice and presented themselves really well.

Their rhetoric: My favorite line of the night was the first thing we heard from either of the candidates, although I don't think we were supposed to hear it. Governor Palin's mic was on as they walked onto the stage. "Hey, can I call you Joe?" How cool! Lots of words from both candidates. Lots of accusations. Lots of down talk. Lots of bragging. Lots and lots of words. He said, he said, she said, he said. But what he meant was... Neither candidate really messed up, even though Sarah did mix up a couple of names and facts. Joe got tongue-tied a time or two and looked a little trepiditious about swinging at a woman. It's never nice to hit a woman, even when she dares you to.

The issues: No surprises. Governor Palin is a Republican and a conservative. She said what conservative Republicans should say when they're running for office. Low corporate taxes, strong national defense, personal responsibility and drill baby drill (for American oil). Where she went off the GOP reservation; leave the gays alone and reign in the Wall Street big boys. Senator Biden did a great job being a Democrat. Helping the little guy, public health care, talking before shooting and taking on big business. Where he kicked the donkey; giving the oil companies permission to drill on their own property and supporting clean coal technology. I'm not sure if he ran that by his boss' peeps.

The candidates: Biden came armed with facts and experience and know-how. Palin was prepared to be charming and firm and knowledgeable about McCain's history as a maverick within his own political party. Leading up to the event, the fears of some and the hopes of others were that she would talk a lot and say nothing and that he would get angry and wonder off on a tangent. Although he did squint and sneer a bit, the senator held his own well. He knew his stuff, and John McCain's. He didn't strike me though as someone who is as deeply in love with Barack Obama as the rest of his party is. The governor performed very well. She talked soccer and winked and came prepared to play against the other team and the referee - darn it. She was winning the personal connection contest until he referred to the pain of losing his wife and his daughter and almost losing his sons in a tragic traffic accident in 1972. His emotion seemed very honest.

Gwen Ifill: There was lots of speculation about her ability fairly moderate the debate. She's writing a book about Senator Obama that is supposed to be very pro Barack. The talkers on the radio and television were going on and on about it. The loud conservative ones were convinced she'd be one sided and unfair to the governor. I think she proved them wrong.

Who won? If you were a Palinite before the show you're probably even more of one now. I Biden was your man when you turned on the TV I doubt if he isn't now. FOX said Sarah cleaned Joe's clock. CNN didn't think so. Personally, as entertaining as it was, I don't know much more now than I did at 9:00 last night. I think both of them are prepared to be number two.

the iphone speaks

2008-10-01T21:37:00.001-04:00

This is something new for me. Technology is not about to pass me by. It's my first post from my phone. Wish me luck.

-- Post From My iPhone

*curious sin

2008-10-01T06:00:00.002-04:00

I always loved it when the kids in the Gang would peek through the knot hole in the old plank fence. They just had to know what was on the other side. Actually, I’m not sure it was the hole that got their attention as much as it was the overly loud sign. “DON’T LOOK HERE!!!” it said. Those Little Rascals, they were always good for a few chuckles and a subtle life lesson.

I’da done the same thing. If the sign says not to look that’s as good as an invitation to me. I may wait a bit for the crowd to pass, but I’ll linger, loiter, check text messages or make busy somehow until the coast is clear. Then I’ll wince at the big red “DO NOT…” warning and put my eye to the hole. The risk is usually not worth the payoff, and you’re almost always guaranteed to be disappointed. But fortunately this curious cat has lived – although sometimes with regret.

The carnival barker knows how it works. So does a good marketer. I saw a web link the other day that said “Do not click.” So I clicked. Somebody somewhere knows me and my kind too well. I ended up being intrigued about something I’d never have taken the time to find on purpose. I didn’t buy anything, but now I know there’s such a thing as a toilet water converter kit.

Back to the carnie barker, these guys are good. You don’t see a three headed human-alligator-llama-spider every day, and they know it. They also know we’ll trade our popcorn money for the chance to stare at something that’s one of a kind, even though its face looks remarkably like the human-monkey-whale-goat we saw last year. I think most of those spectacles are doctored up myself, but I don’t go to argue. It was curiosity that got me in there, not prudence. We’re not proud enough to brag about it of course. The whole transaction goes down like a back-alley drug deal. When we’re sure no one will notice we slip him the cash then dash inside to witness one of nature’s crazy mistakes.

So, knowing our nature, what would make God think that the earth’s whole population of two wouldn’t be tempted to climb the only tree in the world with a “Do not climb!” sign on it? Seems to me He was just inviting rebellion. Why, it was akin to entrapment. Surely God knew how wishy-washy His new peeps were.

Maybe if He’d just told them there was a killer tree out there somewhere but didn’t say which, Adam and Eve might never have found it. The odds would’ve been better that way. But God pointed it out. He put a poison label on it and then left them to fight their curiosity and temptations. A whole forest full of trees and we want the one we can’t have.

But maybe the tree wasn’t the problem - or the man or the woman for that matter. It certainly wasn’t God. Maybe it was the snake. He knew where to hang out. He’s smart that way. If you have a weakness, that’s where he lingers. Self control issues? Count on him egging you on. If you’re struggling with something that affects your relationship with God, it’s a pretty safe bet the serpent is involved.

It wasn’t the thought of eating that did the first couple in. Surely curiosity is not a sin. I don’t see it listed anywhere in the Bible. Maybe that’s why God didn’t build a fence around the world’s most dangerous tree. Maybe He doesn’t want the church to either.

To be continued…

*I enjoy sharing a few of my thoughts as a contributing writer at sgmradio.com. As older posts are removed from that site I'll be reposting them here. This writing was seen far and wide over there during the month of September.

the boy can sing

2008-09-30T06:00:00.002-04:00

People are always asking me if my kids can sing. Granny Bishop was a good singer. Both Mom and Dad are good singers. Debra, the kid's mom is a good singer. I don't see how Casie and Christian could be anything but good singers - and they are.

Casie was once one of the Gaither Homecoming kids. She starred in a video where she showed her acting, singing and dancing skills; and all of it under tremendous stress and a grueling shoot schedule. It was tough work, but she performed like a talented pretty little trooper.

Christian is a musician and a singer. His drumming skills are awesome (keen timing) and he knows how to present and hold the right note with his voice. Last night he performed with his high school choir and then stepped out to do a full solo. He sang an old Bishops song. I was sooooooooo proud. I met Mom and Dad at the school and we got in the building early enough to get good seats toward the front and in the middle.

I followed along in the little bulletin and got more and more nervous as the big number got closer and closer. When it was finally his turn I grabbed the camera and hoped I was recording something more than his feet. I wasn't about to watch my boy through a lens. The music started, and all of the sudden it was me and Christian. I think everyone else left the room. At least it seemed like it. When it was over I noticed Mom was crying - or had been.

So it wasn't Carnegie Hall. For a moment there though, the Estill County High School auditorium was the most prestigious concert hall in all the world. Christian Bishop delivered a masterpiece and made it that way.

z.a.c.

2008-09-29T12:00:00.002-04:00

Several years ago I was at a monumental cross-roads in my life. Even though my options were limited, I was having trouble settling on which way to go. There were lots of voices with lots of advice, but the one that offered as much compassion as info was Zachary. I needed space to rest and think. He offered it. I needed a friend with the ability to help me sort my things out. There he was. He was a lifesaver for me. I'd tell him I'm forever in his debt, but he'd draw up a payment plan. He's not perfect, just good.

There are friends you trust and believe in, then there are friends you rely on. I'm very fortunate to have lots of the trust and believe type. Then there is the one I can't imagine not having around to share my good and hard times with. Everyone needs someone they can just be wide open with, someone to keep them on balance and focused. In my life that position is filled by Zachary.

Incidentally, his initials actually spell his nickname. So happy birthday Z.A.C.! I hope to be able to return the favor one day.

citizenship

2008-09-17T12:00:00.005-04:00

I have a really good friend who grew up in Nicaragua, and since he's known of our country, he's wanted to be here. As a youngster, he wondered if the children of the United States knew just how fortunate they were. He imagined they all had beds of their own, that all of the little boys had shiny, new bicycles and the little girls rode ponies. He heard of our great melting pot early on and dreamed himself of what it must be like to live in a world where dreams really do come true. The stories, he said, spoke of our land as though it were a sort of biblical place that flowed with milk and honey.

I don't know that I've ever seen anybody so proud in all of my life, unless it would be me. After waiting so long, doing what was necessary, taking the test and the oath, and reciting the Pledge, my friend is now one of us. He's been here for about a decade now, but just a year or so ago he became a naturalized US citizen. It was a long, tedious and expensive task. But he was determined since arriving here to make this his home. Before coming he'd made up his mind that he would not ask for assistance, and he would not wait for an opportunity. He would make his own and do what he could to support himself now while planning for the future.

There are those who don't take the time to get to know him. Their prejudice will not allow it. He says he understands, but I still take issue. I've never asked him to forget his heritage or his customs. He speaks English quite well, but I still ask him to give me some Spanish from time to time. I was on the edge of tears when he recited,

Juro fidelidad a la bandera
de los Estados Unidos de América,
y a la república que representa
una nación bajo Dios,
indivisible cón libertad
y justicía para todós.

Imagine it now in Polish or German, maybe Italian or Hebrew, or one of the languages your great, great grandparents might have spoken.

got myself some constitution

2008-09-17T06:00:00.007-04:00

Remember School House Rock? Growing up in the seventies and eighties, the Saturday morning math, grammar, science and history lessons set to music were the savior some of us needed to pass the next exam. "Conjunction Junction, what's your function? Hooking up words and phrases and clauses..." "I'm just a bill. Yes, I'm only a bill and I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill..." Those were so cool! Thanks to the catchy little tune, I was able to memorize the Preamble to the Constitution. That saved my butt a time or two. The guys back in 1787 probably had no idea they were crafting some of the most memorable lyrics of modern pop culture.

Two hundred and twenty one years ago today a group of men, thirty-nine in all, met in Philadelphia and came to an agreement. That's reason enough to shut down the banks and call it a holiday right there. Get that many Baptists to agree on something... We already had a confederal government. This document though would spell out and set up the working order for a brand new, more centralized way of doing government on a national level. So, sometime that Monday, the US Constitution, minus the twenty-seven amendments we know today, was signed, but not necessarily sealed.

Getting nearly forty guys to come to terms on something so complex took about four months of serious give and take. Now the task was convincing at least nine of the thirteen states to go along. When New Hampshire signed off on June 21st, 1788 the deal was done. Eventually all the states agreed of course, with Rhode Island finally joining the rest of the country in May of 1790. Understand too that they were the only state to decline the invitation to Philly about two and a half years earlier. Since they didn't offer any constitutional input, they weren't sure they even had a dog in this fight.

Something else very interesting: If a state chose not to ratify, they didn't have to belong to the Union. They could be their own little nation in the middle of a nation. Wouldn't that be awkward and all?!

Hindsight being what it is, there were some obvious flaws in the original plan. Thus all the eventual amendments. Initially, slavery was tolerated, even promoted, and according to the original thinkers, some people weren't even considered completely human - just slightly over half a person. As genius as they were, they were not infallible or even without prejudices. But they were men willing to sacrifice and lead. They were forward thinkers who knew that not everyone would appreciate their ideas. That is admirable.

So, today we celebrate the world's oldest federal constitution. Those of us who enjoy the freedoms and liberties that our founding fathers worked to establish, either originally or eventually, should be grateful and humbled. Personally, I think there's more work to be done. I'm certain there will be a variety of ideas and deeply held convictions that will always keep us from a unanimous understanding. But maybe that's not a bad thing. Remember the quote, "If two people always agree on everything, one of them is not necessary."

I hope at the very least we listen while the other guy talks and do our best to keep the conversation intelligent. There's still so much to learn.

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Today is also Citizenship Day. It is a day set aside to "recognize all who, by coming of age or by naturalization, have become citizens.” I have friends who were born somewhere else in the world, but have recently become citizens of the United States. They now vote and get involved in the process of government and community. They can't understand why so many life-long Americans don't. Frankly, neither do I.

thinking of nqc

2008-09-12T06:00:00.000-04:00

In 1957 my mom was only nine years old. My dad was thirteen. It was the year that J.D Sumner and a couple of the Blackwood Brothers got together and started the National Quartet Convention. The first couple of years Memphis played host to the then three day event. But over the years it would move around the south, first to Birmingham then Atlanta, back to Memphis and eventually to Nashville. For about the last fifteen years the now week long Southern Gospel Music event has been living in Louisville, Kentucky.

This is NQC week. As close as it is to where I live I've not had a chance to get over and enjoy it. And when I go I do enjoy it. The concerts are always good. I love the variety of music and styles that comes across the stage. I enjoy some more than others, but even the ones that aren't favorites are still appreciated and respected. They deserve at least that much.

My first NQC experience was in Nashville a little over 25 years ago. I didn't know anyone. No one knew me. I mean, I knew who most of the big names and personalities were, and was absolutely mesmerized when I saw them standing in line at the concession stand or walking through the exhibit hall. These were my heroes. They were the people I'd seen on television and heard on the radio and wanted to be like. And here they were right in front of me - and not on a stage. They seemed awfully normal to be such, such stars.

My first trip to the Convention was a fact finding mission. Our group had just made the decision to record for the Eddie Crook Company, and Dave Wilcox, the A&R guy, said we should think about setting up a booth there to let folks know who we were. So, I decided to at least go down to learn a bit about the set up. I don't remember seeing the part time and regional groups that you see in the exhibit hall these days. Maybe they were there, but they didn't get my attention.

My second trip to the big show was with the rest of my group. We knew so little about anything. We'd been told there was a booth contest. The most creative one won something. We rolled into the Municipal Auditorium in downtown Nashville with enough lumber to build a barn (exaggeration). I remember my brother Mark nearly running over Wendy Bagwell with a load of one-by-sixes. It's a wonder he didn't turn it into a neat story to tell. (We got really close to Wendy later in our career.) I walked around that hall the whole week introducing myself to people I recognized as professional singers, knowing they'd never remember me, but hoping they might. Connie Hopper tells me she actually remembers when I walked up to her, stuck my hand out and said, "Hi, I'm Kenny Bishop."

That first year as an artist at the Convention was exciting. We weren't on the big stage, and there were no matinees in those days, except for the morning chapel service that the owner groups sang on. But it didn't matter. We were a part of that first group of artists that would eventually signal tremendous change in the genre. We came into the industry alongside some of today's real success stories. It was a neat little club; the Greenes, the McKameys, the Perrys, Jeff & Sheri Easter, the Martins and several others. We all took our first bows about the same time. Just ahead of us was Gold City, Heavenbound and the Paynes.

Our first opportunity to take a mic in the big room was in 1988 I believe. Maybe '89. What I do remember was how incredibly nervous we were. I was about to hold the mic that Ben Speer had just used. Probably Glen Payne, Glen Allred or an Echo of some sort before that. Every group but the Inspirations had big, full bands back then. So the stage was large, bigger than any we'd ever stood on. How would we fill it? But it was the anxiety leading up to hearing our name that was the worst part. Once we got out there it worked out ok. I don't think we'd ever sung to so many human backsides in all our lives.

Our ten or twelve minutes on America's biggest Gospel music stage seemed to last for hours. I don't think we said a word. We just sang - kinda like in a fog. When the yellow light came on, telling us we had about three minutes to wrap 'er up and move along, I was ready to stop mid-song and take a bow. We finished though and enjoyed much more applause than we were prepared for. Our first appearance on the NQC stage turned out to be a success after all.

today

2008-09-11T06:00:00.009-04:00

On November 21st of 1963 no one had a reason to believe that they'd remember tomorrow so well. If the people in charge of security for President Kennedy knew the next day's headline they'd have probably done some things very differently. December 7, 1941 started out remarkably like the day before, but once it got underway it seemed it would never end, and it didn't really until V-Day three and a half years later. It still hasn't ended for some.

Unless it was a personally significant time, most folks can't tell you much about September 10, 2001. But our memories become very sharp and clear when we recall the next day. Thinking first that a plane had veered off course and into one of the tall World Trade Center buildings in Lower Manhattan, we felt sadness for the unfortunate passengers, crew and occupants. But we didn't feel threatened, not right away, not where most of us lived.

It was my first day on a new job, so once word circulated through the hallways that something big was happening, I joined about a dozen brand new coworkers in a Lexington, Kentucky office building watching the morning move in slow motion on a big screen TV that was usually used for company presentations. Reporters were saying that they knew nothing for sure, not even the size of the plane that accidentally hit the building or how it could've veered so badly off course. Several where I was were on their cell phones checking in on family. Then, when we saw on live television the second plane hit the second building and it dawned on us that the first one was probably just as big and just as deliberate, we were speechless and all of the sudden afraid.

All the speculation and questions and eye witness reporting that was going on on the ground and in the studios and news rooms was only adding to the anxiety. We had a feeling it was our whole nation that was being attacked, but we knew too that the most personal and painful wounds were several hundreds of miles away. Our fear couldn't equal their hurt.

As the morning crept along we learned of two more hijacked planes, one that targeted the Pentagon, and another that was bravely taken over by a group of selfless men and women who refused to live any longer if it meant injuring their country. By the end of the day the skies were completely and eerily silent. People were praying. Our leaders were planning, and the images of what should've been a forgetful day were etched deep enough to never be erased.

pigs and lipstick, boy!

2008-09-10T06:00:00.000-04:00

Way back decades ago when this current presidential race thing was first getting started one of our US congressmen here in Kentucky took a few licks on the chin and eventually apologized for referring to Senator Barack Obama as "boy." I know Congressman Davis. He is in no way whatsoever a racist and in fact has little tolerance for anyone who is. The context of his remarks, given during a political rally speech, were not intended to be racist, but were immediately grabbed and distorted by some who wanted to discredit his person (he was running for reelection) for their own political advantage. So, even knowing that he meant nothing even remotely bigoted, he offered his regrets just so he could move on and win the election. And he did.

What? What did he say? Did she just say what I thought she said? Did he mean to say that - that way? Oh no he di-unt!! Semantics and accusations of meaning and taking one word of one sentence of one paragraph of one speech completely out of context seems to be in super abundance during this presidential race. The finger pointing is beginning to come across as childish and whiny to me. Both campaigns are doing it. The political commentators are doing it. The bloggers are doing it. And sadly, people at the water cooler are doing it.

Yesterday Senator Obama said something about a pig and lipstick. The McCain/Palin folks screamed foul. They say Barack was referring to the lady governor. He says he wasn't, it was a reference to trying to dress up the same old way of doing things in Washington. The M/P folks should know that. Their candidate used the same exact phrase several months ago when they thought he'd be running against Hillary. If she was offended I don't remember hearing about it.

It's mostly hypocrisy. A few days ago former president Jimmy Carter was in the middle of an interview when he does exactly what Geoff Davis from Kentucky did. The same people who kicked and screamed and accused the congressman of practically carrying a kkk card did a nervous cough, turned their heads and pretended they didn't hear anything. To be fair, it really ought to be a goose/gander sort of thing.

Parsing words is one of the things about campaigns that frustrates me. We want the candidates to be honest and frank. Yet, they are not allowed to say what they mean in a direct way for fear of being taken completely out of context. It's getting to the point that no one in public service can say anything that might maybe even in the most remote way be possibly considered somewhat or even just a little bit something that could be turned inside-out or vaguely not nice.

leave room for the holy ghost

2008-09-09T12:00:00.001-04:00

It seemed pretty normal to me. I remember as a youngster going to church and seeing older men and women who were married to each other sitting on opposite sides of the building. It wasn't like they were fighting or anything. That was just a tradition that started way back when and they didn't see a need to personally change it. Another tradition in our church was having the whole congregation kneel at the altar that stretched across the front of the sanctuary. I remember the first time I went up and took a wrong turn. I was gently directed by an older woman to the men's side. I wasn't offended, but if I'd been paying attention I would've known. It also didn't occur to me when I hugged my nice, lady Sunday School teacher that we just didn't do that sort of thing. And if we did we certainly had to leave room for the holy ghost.

Our church also practiced foot washing. It goes back to Jesus' point when he told his disciples that they should be servants willing to do the most humbling of tasks for their fellow man. Since he did this the same time he served them the cup and the bread, we felt we should follow his example and do the same thing from time to time. So, about three or four times a year we'd schedule a foot-washing service. But we didn't believe in mixed bathing, so the women would go to one room, the men to another and we'd wash away.

Maybe it's because of those experiences that it seemed a little uncomfortable to me to watch Senator John McCain wrap his arms around Governor Sarah Palin the other night - and a few times since then. I've seen Barack and Joe Biden hug and it didn't bother me. And even though it was forced, it didn't seem strange when Senators Obama and Clinton locked in awkward embrace a time or two. Maybe it's because she is a more manly woman.

I was wondering if anyone else had noticed the GOP hugs when I read a piece somewhere yesterday - on AOL I think. The etiquette experts were talking about what is appropriate and what isn't. I forget what they said. Something like an extended arm hug is ok as long as the arms are horizontal and not locked or something like that. Back in the mid-eighties when we had our very first mixed gender ticket Walter hardly ever touched Geraldine. But then again, we weren't that far past Ricky and Lucy sleeping under the same blanket either.

I don't have issues with a presidential candidate and his running mate hugging - as long as Cindy and Mr. Palin are fine with it.

rent - one last time

2008-09-08T18:00:00.007-04:00

I'm a RENT junkie. Actually, that's probably not the best way to describe my fascination with the musical-turned-movie-but-never-left-Broadway-until-it-closed-this-past-weekend. But I am a fan, and now I'm sad. One of the most impacting and emotional dramas to know that stage has ended its run. Anyone who didn't get to see it has really missed out.

Back a couple of years or so ago I wrote about the impact this genious piece of theater had had on me. It reminded me of the smallness of my thinking and my own world. It also reminded me of the first words my daughter said to me when we stepped off the subway and she really saw New York City for the first time. "Dad, look at all of the different kinds of people." We made our way to the Nederlander Theater to see the show before we left town. It had an impact on her too.

You'd have to click way on back in this journal to find my earlier thoughts on RENT. So, if you'll indulge me, I'm gonna repeat my original post from December 31, 2005.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

*Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,

Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear.

Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,

How do we measure, measure a year?

We have some great opportunities ahead of us. A whole new year with fresh months, weeks, days, hours, minutes and even seconds to do something meaningful and life-changing. How exciting is that? But maybe I'm jumping the gun.

I've never seen the Broadway play Rent. But I have seen the movie version, and I really liked it. I loved the music, and the talents of the actors/singers/musicians/dancers left me jealous and inspired. To me the story-line was dark, sort of depressing and mostly presented only one side of some pretty serious issues. But the lessons learned while I looked in on the gritty lives of a group of struggling but determined friends were invaluable. The presentation was very in-your-face, and the way some of the issues are raised and handled may go against your ideas and convictions. But I'd recommend catching it if you think you can see these characters as living real life in a real world. You'll either feel deep compassion for them in their struggles, or as one of my notable Christian friends said, "They brought their problems on themselves. They were just reaping the fruits of their lifestyles."

Distrust for the system, abundant trust in each other, dedication to their beliefs, and unconditional love among friends were the more obvious points I gathered while in the theater. You couldn't miss the obvious bonds that were formed among those who were living a tough, unforgiving inner city life together. Death, disease and disdain from the "normal" world were very real. But the less obvious thought that kept crossing my mind was how all of these characters seemed to value and treasure their time together. It's like they knew their days and opportunities were limited, so they took full advantage of every moment. Thus the song, "Seasons of Love," and the lyrics about all the minutes.

This brings me back to the great opportunities that are ahead of us. Imagine our minutes were the talents Jesus spoke about in Matthew 25. The Master has trusted you with something very valuable. So, this year you and I will have 12 months or 52 weeks or 365 days or 8,760 hours or 525,600 minutes or 31,536,000 seconds to risk ourselves while we show charity and mercy to those who need it most, or we can waste every moment on protecting what we have for one more year. I'd like to be able to look back at this time in 2006 and say I invested and spent my minutes wisely - measured in love.

Seasons of Love
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand moments so dear.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes,
How do we measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee,
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
In five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.
How do we measure a year in the life?
How about love?
How about love?
How about love?
Measure in love.
Seasons of love.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes
Five hundred twenty-five thousand journeys to plan.
Five hundred twenty-five thousand, six hundred minutes.
How do we measure the life of a woman or a man?
In truths that she learned, or in times that he cried,
In bridges he burned, or the way that she died.
It’s time now to sing out tho’ the story never ends.
Let’s celebrate! Remember a year in the life of friends.
Remember the love.
Remember the love.
Remember the love.
Measure the love.
Measure the love.
Seasons of love.
Seasons of love.

*Seasons of Love from Rent by Jonathan Larson